Chapter Eleven, Undertow
Ides of Dawncrest, Year Zero of the Aeon of Drakkon, Crestfall
No aspect of civilization went without its blemishes not even its glazed crown of Crestfall. A fact evident to Argus as he shuffled through the city’s slums. Here in the dilapidated sectors where no wealth had been spent for the sake of its lesser denizens those of Vizzari’s expunged wallowed in the mud pit. Those who were unable to buy influence in the Drakoni Summit sworn now to share in the squalor of the lowest. The disgraced Consul stumbled about gravel & muck. Careful to conceal his less than infamous mug behind hood & mask. All but his eyes were kept under dark crimson threat. Although his goal was in sight every step trod a mile through the mire, fouled by more than the drench of chamber pots.
Symptoms of ceaseless compulsion bubbled up through his skin. Sickness of want convulsing beneath. Always Argus carried haunting echoes in his inner eardrums. The carrion scoria of human flambeaus and the cries of crucifixion bedevil his memory. Even when enfeebled by intoxication, after that Sunhilte day of frenzied fires, recall follows as constant as those routine impalements. Thirst for inebriated emancipation, even flitting, waxed with wraiths’ curse. To give phantom feeling to his necrotic hand. A drive that drove the wretch toward the only freedom he could yet earn.
The fallen emissary entered a humble hovel of a tavern. Made himself known to the bartender. The enigmatic fellow quickly came to the aid of his most generous of patrons and with a crooked smile across his wilted mask asked, “what’ll it be this day, good ser?”
He leaned whisper to the purveyor of spirits. “I am a fly caught in what webs we weave.”
This muted password produces a nod from the man, who pours his guest a glass of something stinking. Beside the glass two tarot cards materialize from wooly sleeve. One for lupanar and another for nymphaeum. Argus points to the latter. The caretaker raises putrid glass for himself and clangs Argus’s in toast. “Ay, the Spider spins her silk for thee.” He shakes his good hand, silky key appearing in the patron’s. Downing his potent poison, he pads the client’s shoulder. Then offers directive, carried by fetid breath, reeking of booze from his stores. “Take the left route. Be sure to lock the door once in. I trust you won’t get too tangled up in her web, Ser.”
With this, Argus had invitation to the Spider’s Web, a secret hub for congregation & consumption. His key: transitory; serving once before the locks changed yet offering passage into den for one with eager lust for liberation from petty consciousness. A lair of libation unlike the dirty streets harboring it. Its furnishings were dapper and exotic, with tapestries & canvases implying distant dreamlands. Along with fanciful depictions & well laid booths, equally decadent aromas invited the visitor to join in fantasy. Here those affluent addicts & shadowy congresses cared little for any booths not their own. Showing no interest in marking a face, nor having theirs noticed by any but their friends, co-conspirators & server-doctors.
Argus frowned to see this exclusive circle less compact in its scope. Finding himself amidst throngs of odd customers and folk unknown to him. If he were recognized by any faithful to the fallen Vizzarion they would hold no high regard for him. Although he had the protective seal, marking him as a foundling of Imperium, there were those who might dare death in terror to assure the demise of their false champion. But this concern was fleeting. A worrisome candlestick stamped out by the proprietor’s spindly arm wrapping about him from the ether.
“What we are having for ourselves this evening, friend?” asked a croaky voice from beneath beaked mask. Intoned convivially by doctor of drugs & sorcery. “The timeless Nymphaea Spiritus again? Or needing a wee bit of Fae-Fyre Crystal?” The Spider’s faceless mask made intimidating figure to bargain with. Even when conducting casual business, the lack of any recognizable facial tick hid all intentions behind aquiline unease. “Perhaps we shall want the pair? Or more?”
“A hit of the good stuff, yes. As much of both you are willing to part with, dear merchant of miracle. Been a shoddy month.” & a wretched life. The despoiled Consul, ne’er to be, flopped tribute to the spider-doctor. Who then gestured to breathtakingly graven hookah pipe, packing its plate essence of Nymph’s Breath, offering it up to his guest in a show of hospitality.
Argus gleefully accepted the offer, riding the winds of elevation, floating up with the smoke to see himself take the hit through ghostly vessel. Through bloodshot eyes, a result of the fire burning in his lungs & bloodstream, he surveyed the room. Everything cavorted and danced through witch mist of shimmering shapes. “A lot of new pals found their way here, it would appear.”
Although the figure’s oblique, birdlike nose didn’t sway in any direction, Argus felt the heat of un-light gaze flit dark rays onto him. “Business is good, aye. I will not speak long on the rule of Drakkon but can say that since the city changed its colours the masses flock to my wares with redoubled effort. See, I offer ecstasy where once lay only misery. With the funds from the needy herding here, my operation is fit to expand. I can evermore afford to transport more goods into this glistening crystal of a city. We swell in fat friendship, as soon shall Light ov Imperia.”
No concern stayed long in his brain once the Nymphaea Spiritus brought levitation above his thoughts. Bringing him to a blissful void of freedom. A few whiffs of the noxious smoke and Argus no longer felt the haunting soreness of his half-sown hand nor wounds of ego.
Emerald shards dazzled Argus. Drooling over refined quality of the Fae-Fyre Crystal, he raptures dust of its residue through his nostrils. Lightning coursed through his sphere. Bolts firing through brain by demigod proportion. This miniscule but marvelous olive essence altered his perception as swiftly as a mere few months of it harrowed his form. Former prefect’s physique, fallen into a frail shell; body withered as neglected field with null yield. Him: a dead weed to be reaved. Yet these chemical comrades let him forget his station as no more than a strung puppet, a lapdog of the lords.
Haze of hookah vapors, witch-teas and diet of alchemical meal was preferable to the dayless miasma conjured by the nascent predominance of that Living Light. High Tide of an ill formed passage; a time, into the Dusk of Vizzari but before next Aeon’s Dawn. In the ebb before eminence of Imperium, countless were thrashed & drowned by waves of Revolution. More died, twice the number, than those in the war of the Lord’s lightning conquest. & more grain of souls must yet be harvested to fulfill that season’s oath. All this, in a year that would be wiped from record once Order was established over the grave of Serpent & its hatchlings. But Argus willingly whisked away awareness of transition’s stillborn tumult by winds of malt and nymphaeum. Just as the imminent Drakoni Calendar would soon do by writ.
“Just so you know, a group of less than genteel gentlemen may be searching for you this evening. I suggest after you’ve had your fill to make yourself scarce.” Furcated false face poked at the patient. Herbal hallucinations transformed this creature into colossal bird of prey. But then Argus saw the beak was less of raptor than arachnid. A pelican-spider’s briery mandibles moved its words. Around it wings of web & tenebrous feelers purled. “No one enters my Web without me unwinding the tapestries of their character. Tis for this I give you the best silk, knowing regal worth. Be safe, my ‘prince’.”
In short breath Argus was alone in the booth. Save for the company of spirits, crystals & smog. The Spider disappeared into the abyss past his lounge. Though that harvestman’s fibrous yet stringent tulle trail trespassed there for tick tarrying after the spinner retired. This stranger was whispered to have once been a Druid but that could not be, for the hermit pilgrims cut the tongues of any apostate who may spill their secrets. Yet his ‘friend’ Aris lived on, with words waggling to spurn him still.
Argus wallowed there in a purgatorial space as visions drifted. He’d forgotten in this froggy mire’s bog-mist of foul failings that ominous warning from his provider. Yet omen of ‘less than genteel’ snoopers bore silk of reality woven by those words of haste. A squadron of ‘gentlemen’ barged into the den. Wired pupils concentrated on this adrenaline sparking intrusion. But the longer he stared at the armored men trekking through the lair the more he persuaded himself their march was merely illusion born of paranoic dream.
Their appearance & behavior here further affirmed this notion. That the Drakoni stormers headed directly towards his booth but ignored every criminal element abound assured they were as Saatharian shades. For they passed as if dealing with such scum were beneath them. & as much as the weaver of webs here awed Argus he couldn’t conceive of these zealous paladins, always bent on eradication of profligacy, heresy & economic dissent which did not serve the coming Order they slaved to ordain barging into a place packed with unholy trinity. And so, he turned his back towards them for the faeries, dancing in the air beside his seat.
Yet the fist that slammed onto his table shaking pipe & coal from it arced with splintering realness. Thwack! & the ethereal nymphs & fae were smashed to ash. Mordaunt, captain of these crusaders, scowled and drummed his sheathe. “Argus, you are hereby to submit to arrest for treason & conspiracy against our Living Lord and his coming eternal Imperium. What you plead here matters not. You shall face trial by summit of peers & superiors. Resistance shall be observed as admission of guilt and punishment rendered on the spot. Come peaceably.”
Mordaunt disguised his brutishness in angelic front, wearing the armor of his not yet fully legitimized Imperium, blended brand of cloud white, with Sol’s gold and sapphire of storm. Shaded by his drooping yellow locks there was crudeness & wrongness about the face of this rising champion and right hand of Drakkon. Always those daggers of frigid dark aimed behind pale blue stare frightened.
In search of penance Argus let himself be taken. Mustering no resistance, Mordaunt chanced to push his captive further to breaking point. Kicked him back to the must before the threshold and placed iron-fitted boot to his neck. “Lie low, little soul. Do not exert past your ability.”
Dragged away in shame from shady nook into the wide streets of Crestfall, Argus became a public spectacle of humiliation. Paraded for plebian jeers & the joy of Mordaunt. The profligate ‘High heir from low hearth’ gaped dumbly at all the people he’d once served. Delirious & dirt- smothered, he caught their curses and felt their rain of spittle. Saw their hateful hail through distant orbs as his frame scraped against filth & cobblestone. He forsook himself with their eyes, knowing himself deserving of dying covered in grime and smelling of failure.
Road to Ruin
Crestfall Grand Hall, two fortnights following
Servants garbed in lustrous white, gold & sapphire threads radiating their master’s glory, welcomed Mordaunt. Gently they led him through corridors of the Court – remolded & reborn as Drakkon’s House ov Light. The helots offered him sweets & idle luxuries which he declined. Feeling at odds with letting on any docility when their triumph, while waxing, required more to be assured. With his face as grim as ever, all whom he passed in the halls wavered at his gait.
They reached the summit of the great House. Where Drakkon constructed his council on the bones of the magistrate’s theocratic college. How surreal it was, even still, to pass through the masterfully crafted doors into the heart of Crestfall. Once the lair of the Serpent’s prime speakers & augurs, under Vizzari he never dreamt of earning the honor, the privilege, of seeing the fabled hall for himself. Yet rather than a thrall he walked freely as a conqueror.
In the center an ample brazier roasted light over the summit chamber, illuminating his Lord who walked over slowly. “We are glad to see you, Mordaunt. No need to dance about with the customs,” Spoke the emperor who bid his guest to rise, as Mordaunt had begun bow of reverence, “there is much to discuss. Yet we are grateful for your presence”
Drakkon offered his lieutenant a glass of gin & one of ale in genial fashion. Mordaunt settled on the ale although he couldn’t help but raise his brow with curious observation. Why should the divine long for mortal intoxication? “In high spirits, are we? Cheers & hail to you, my Lord, and masterful friend!”
“We – in the royal manner and in reference to the good members of our court which shall seat our Empire – settled on a proper gift for you. As testament for your heroic service!” The confident sheen of Solaris shined through him. So considerable in its proportion as to warm even the aloof Mordaunt with cheerful affect.
In the span it took for the emperor to smash back a glass (which wasn’t long at all, even if he ‘rarely’ indulged such ‘mortal vices’ as drink) and another servant to scuffle off swiftly he had no time to ponder what this reward might be. Not before Drakkon swung back silk curtain concealing an ornate sheathe. It snared his sight. “As my Sword you smash blockades against our progress, cut those who denounce our Imperium & avail yourself any battle yet required of us. Now you return to our court having brought Argus and hundreds more traitors to heel. For bringing wit-welded might to hedge-ling fronts & death to those rebel houses you shall have fitting foil of your own!”
The blade burst from that specially made encasement. A refined version of that purplish black blade once wielded by the fell lord Th’uul. It winked at its new owner with beauteous sheen. “As you are my Champion of Might I grant you this sword! Once the Fang of Dread Vizzarion, to be betrothed now to the one who hath proven his spirit great enough to hold in faithful hand!”
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“I cannot express enough my gratitude, o Lord! I could never consider myself deserving of such a treasure... Beyond all my mortal measure I thank you!”
When the obsidian sword became his to possess it sang to his hand, shaking slightly in surprise. Looking upon its dark yet shining body Mordaunt felt edge alight by his touch, a resonance wake. The weapon whispered to him as his Lord spoke. “Let past victories nourish future ones! Christen the blade with heretics’ blood!”
Aris, the druid & supplicant lord to this newfound Drakoni Imperium coughed. A jarringly harsh sound, suggesting heavier binds to burden this blessed blade. When Drakkon spoke, his demand (though wrapped up as a question of friendly conscience) entombed this suspicion in certainty.
“There is another aspect that arrives of this gift that must be asked of thee. Another duty for the one who would take up this sword to serve my Light. Lady Portia, I speak of, frankly. Remember you a certain Dread Knight, who you slew with valor the day we took this capitol? Well, the widow to that elder man, inherits his proprietorship to the Felwreath Quarry. To satiate her appetite for revenge my counsels propose we turn her to the light in seeing the goodness of what we are building through the ancient and far-traveled custom of marriage. You are asked now to be the champion of her redemption. To-”
The champion dared disturb the lead of his Lord. “Should I not destroy this harpy? Finish off her House instead? That we may acquisition her industry to forge forth our eminent Emp-”
Drakkon stomped upon his auxiliary’s overreaching step. “That you endured the displeasure of Felwreath is known. For that I forgive this outburst of unreason at mention of its mistress. We would not ask you to slaughter a Lady. That is not the way to our supremacy! Her risk in rousing well-funded opposition to our revolutionary rebirth is acted only whilst in throes of anguish. Lashing out in mourning for her ‘war hero’ husband when she may be courted calmly.”
The vassal-lord of Abraxas boldly tipped his toe out to advise. A brashness which their Lord held note of long after his eye turned, letting this tongue waggle for a beat. “We only win so much through warring. Though your service to our liege is legend we must forge links with the defeated by more than our steel if we wish to enfold them into our hearth. That she is a Lady, wears no mail nor blade, allows her assemble shadow host against us. But that she hosts the prime portion of our rival faction is a boon should pact of union join her cause to us. For they shall yet have stake in our foundation and no longer fling the lives of their subjects against walls of our spears.”
“Tether the tearful Portia to a true and lawful union in you. You, who made her a widow must seek penance by making her your wife and taking her family matters, the burdens, and financial responsibilities, as your own. Will you accept this task, my friend?” Inquired Drakon. Or rather, demanded. A hand reached for a drink to replace the last and clasped another to his helot’s pauldron. “Will you relent your pride to serve our Imperium in utmost holy grace? Will you serve as savior for all the lives that could be lost otherwise by swearing yours to Lady Portia? Will you do this to let the tired tribesmen who came forth from the Ruun to subdue the east return home and rest their sickness of longing?”
“My Lord that is not my intention. I aim to do as you will but only ask the reason here that I might be enlightened more. Surely, that she mounts such resistance makes her an enemy more than a lady, no? You do not fear-”
“I fear nothing of this woman nor any aspect of our path. She is no warrior queen as your hesitance wishes her to seem!” Drakkon heartily laughed away the notion of fear. Yet his admonishing gaze passing over the blessed Fang to its wavering wielder hinted that Mordaunt should fear more than losing the sword should he persist in meandering challenge.
“In another time there might be such a woman, a Valkyrie among their brood.” The Lord spent thought for his woman, who the world was yet to know in full worth & valiance. “Imagine the portly Portia as a warrior & threat, ha! Be not naïve! Tis not fear that guides this notion, but guile applied for virtuous purpose of greater harmony. For you see, Mordaunt, should we simply take her out we will but make her a martyr. Aris informs us of her undying and utmost petulant popularity among the peoples once belonging to Vizzari. As well as an interest in you, who proved her old man’s better, which could be bridled. One band of matrimony on your fingers could save innumerable lives and assure we step forth into a true golden age.”
Mordaunt gulped down his dignity in steep swallow. He knew of this Lady Portia. Felt first her glare come the early balls & festivals. She’d come then, to spy & despise, to the first of many Triumphs that rolled on into each other. But that gargantuan gentlewoman cast eye at first of ire and then a different, lusting fire. She’d been transfixed by him, flouted others for his company. Yet he knew her as one as wide in vanity as girth. Her attitude and appearance revolted him. But he recognized the need here and felt a quarrelsome edge of guilt driven into his gut. And so, he laid low his head and accepted this disgrace in the name of higher honour. “I shall do this, my Lord, my Emperor. I pray your Light shall shine on our union and make it bearable.”
Drakkon’s laughter cracked the rim of the room yet again and he smiled at his loyal warrior. “Do not despair, my sword! Sure, they say she has the looks of a stuffed pig but alas she has a fortune greater than any chieftain. And to offer tribute to this union we propose it shall be held the very date following our wedding with Corinna as to fully share all under our Light! But know that our weddings await a more peaceful time. In doing this you assure this sooner!”
Aris craned neck to speak once more in place of his master. “Hark also the huzzah of having a House of your own to hold to! Note the Lady Portia offers not only herself but a lineage to abide & seal your ascent by! She already expresses interest in you! Think: do you not yearn for an heir? Besides warrior’s legend you’ve little legacy. Why not lend her your hand, announce your love, and let her lease her name and House to you?”
“I have said I shall do this and so it is sworn.” Mordaunt grunted but wandered inward. Sworn to false family when I already have a child of my own. A lineage through prophecy & witchery past any proportion of Portia’s! For though witches, the daughters of Baba’Yun breed beauty. He accepted the offered ale absently. “I shall earn through affection her name of Gilth’Hilde!”
Drakkon toasted him cheers. Implied to keep his sword and savor it having admitted the price of its gift. Then, when his other yet unhumbled supplicant deigned propose another motion to the pair their liege readied verbal buckler. Waiting to deflect the address that came when optimal.
With dogged tone the Druid spoke to the groom to be. “Your grace & humility is a virtue in our day, Champion. There is, however, another issue all of us wish to come to an agreement on. I been visited by visions of late; dreaming emblems of the fates’ whim in which I view a distant land beyond the eastern deserts. There is a promised land, where oases bloom with golden wellsprings. At first, I thought these simple fancies, but the High Mother shares the same Sight. Scouts & charters sent to map the regions past the great wastes return with confirmation of this faraway haven. Though distant and through dry trek it is no mirage. This may prove the perfect settlement to send those more troublesome Vizzari loyalists who are too brutish to integrate and the useless stock who drain more than they sow. But they must be guarded the way there.”
Mordaunt looked to Aris then Drakkon. “You wish me to lead them through to exile? What purpose does my marriage to Portia serve if we are simply to swipe away all the dissenters? Why must I sacrifice my independence to a wicked woman when you are asking me to exert force & restraint at once? Not that I fear this either.”
Aris presented papyrus scroll of instruction & map of the arid journey. Along with illustrations of its destination: Beatific clime & fertile soil. Black pyramids & deep dales by the tropics. “You are more ardent than any trial. Who better to safeguard this migration? Your pending spouse’s sway is large, indeed, but rules not the riled & fevered. Nor do we have the space & feed for the feckless. They must be relocated as to end season of slaughter. That they may tend their toils for their ends and be kept from disrupting our newfound harmony. Which is yet a fragile egg which can be cracked too early.”
Now Drakkon pounced with pronged tongue to tie Aris & Mordaunt within their reins. “You will have time for a couple more accords and to arrange Gilth’Hilde’s hand. Close your affairs and return to seal that marriage. You will not be sent into the eastern wastes alone to die abandoned.” He indicated that progeny of Abraxas. “Our gracious compatriot here shall serve as collateral. His duty shall hold him to that oasis you pursue, and unlike yours shall not lead back. For we must have emissary there among even the exiled. An eye to the East to ensure its placidity.”
Aris’ chameleon blinders flittered as his expression nulled to wintry lake frozen over. “Me, my Lord? But I am of far more avail to you close in Crestfall! My House is rebuilt solely for your Living awe. & I hath given much aid to your holy mother, helped her in the construction of your grand tower; this testament of wonders, Azar-Drakon. Why scourge me, who is only ever your loyal subject, so by permanent exile?”
His liege’s retort buckled Aris. His stumbling stature resembling Mordaunt’s conflicted pose just prior. “Who better to guide that more treacherous half of the Vizzar to new home in peace? Who better to tend to their prosperity & seed that new seat? Who, save he who states oft & loudly of having no love for his father’s estates and dreams of vaster ventures? Not to forget he whose House treasury is full enough to cover expenditure of lasting expedition.”
“My fortune is your Living will, Lord. But should it not be spent on finishing your pillar, your monument to Elderath spanning empire? Does the High Mother not require my counsel more than the lambs of the lost Serpent?” He attempted deflection of this fugitive passage with riposte. He glanced to Azarra; aloof, idly pondering her glass & its vintage.
But the High Mother whose favor he’d presumed to possess preoccupied herself by envious snares & jealous business. Setting nets in her minds against this marriage of her son to heath-maid, Corinna, more than hearing his plea. Besides his presence grew to cover her in awkward shade and she tired of him in copious manners. With Aris around, her son’s consideration of her advice waned. He heard her only through grainy filters of rambling noise & courtly ruses of rhetoric. Such spinning schemes only wound her conduit in Drakkon closer to his desired bride and away from his mother’s vision.
“We thank you for the help with our tower, Aris. & more still! Truly though the master masons you set to it serve us well shall continue to do so without your management. Tis only three weeks I hath been in Crestfall and already two riots ruptured the fabric of our capitol. One stole away four of my disciples. My Azarine murdered in the market square by indignant wretches who refuse to bend to the hammer of Law. You are bold & witty enough to tame them, I pray.”
She pressed further, plunging more wine along liver’s tract. “What might your Druidic brothers have to say, anyway, about your ceaseless promotions and all these material gains you fly to defend? Think how this pilgrimage should attune you more to mystical treads, no?”
“My ‘brethren’ say naught. As always. But their silence is preferable for it keeps them to their hermitic lot. Should they descend form their lofty mound of Felhenge it shall be when darkness is upon the world. They would interfere to comment on the realm only after Doom precedes their waking.” Hurt lived in Aris. Fostered through Azarra’s rejection, her abrupt indifference to him.
He’d lost more than just her ear. And yet there dwelt opportunity in the adventure ‘on offer’ in this imprisoning sentence. “How unfair this turn, after all my worship freely given to thee!”
“Good god in my son! No more Saatharian tricks & Vizzarion venom!” Azarra barked. “You whine more than Mordaunt did about wedding the Gilth’Hilde woman! Believe me I hate her as much as he might, but I swallow scorn for service, as we all do! You must see the verity of subduing the rabble who justify aberrant atrocity coolly by slating our laws as evils upon them. Portia’s influence may be tamed. Whereas the mongrels responsible for slaughtering my acolytes are utterly feral and must be slung into the wilderness. Who better than prodigal druid to lead the savage to Light? & if those hounds do not obey, slay them and rule alone.”
“Wherefore not send Argus hence, as head of ashamed asps? Let their ire claw him, not me! Or is not our warlike champion’s strength enough to shape their accord by his arm? I do not dither here in gross comfort but lay the layers of our bright horizon-”
The High Mother groaned behind column of spirits in her palm. “Are you truly so short sighted as to see this as scourge? I thought you a man possessed of insight. Capable of understanding the
method & meaning of exorcising this tumor of insurrection, with roots in our House unsettling it’s structure. Be wed to your duty in this.” Azarra averted her eyes from those of the man she scolded. This refusal to acknowledge him branded Aris with spite but when they did meet her glance condemned him.
Hers was a feline sneer to catch his want, his mischievous glint thirsting for taps of ambitious draught. Yet, he sensed, the disdain & distance boring into him from her was born from her vulnerability. Any too close to the throne pressed upon her, as did any who were not guileless compatriots & true believers in deification of her son unseat her comfort. “You must have reason to live beyond clashes of holdings and clinging to the capital. Once the tide settles and our shore established what spring you’ll nourish there! Establish House in the east as you advise Mordaunt does here!”
The squabbling gave Mordaunt chance to contemplate his stake. Again, the weavings of Baba’Yun & her daughters shrouded shape of his thought. I am blessed only just before this turn by knowledge of my daughter’s birth! Yet, siring her through silver witch, her shine is as blessed as her namesake! I know the newfound light of my Selene, how it bids the sun to turn and shine for her. I hath glimpsed the beauty of her being and how it blossoms petals purer than this mortal toil we plod on! Yet now I am sentenced to suffer burn of the desert Sol for fetters of fugitive march? Then, returning, be shackles to a selfish hog, bonded to false family – instead of tending mine - for the sake of security?
Blood of the gods! How is that fair for me? Shall my Selene be stalled from growing under shade of her father’s face? Must it be that I live an unending lie and sacrifice true hearth for tribute to Drakkon & the bid of Portia? To betray true daughter for the affection of one who should rightly loathe me? Nay! I shall see her rays again before I am off. I cannot immolate love on the altar to duty... Yet will the hecatomb of the Vizzar not haunt me into the west? Follow me home to visit in misery? Blast it all! Nay! I will woo that walrus, Portia, and hide my disgust just enough to make use of her bloated wealth. Slip surplus silver Selene’s way. That she can savor some more aesthetic luxury than those woodland witches would give her. She will have the crown of worship and court of stars dancing and singing through every night...
Speaking thence, with fervor of inner purpose, Mordaunt enjoyed the opportunity to humble Aris. “Should you not be assured of the High Mother’s wisdom? Or do you only spout it when it reflects your own? She trusts you to lead this trail. Cleanse our lands of wicked faces that cloak themselves among commoner veils and do so without the bloodshed you claim to revile. So, you shall. And as I will lead you there to far clime fret not loss of freedom. For tis I who shall be in bondage to Portia, tasked with leashing her plots and excess of appetite. Ha! Be merry that you are yet a Lord, Housed by Living Light, & without taking the name of a Lady!”
While this debacle of court persisted Drakkon killed yet more cups. That the discourse revolved less around him, invoking his Name more than his word before it could be spoke, called him to call upon more to “settle his palette”. Through all this his aspect grew darker. Taking grim shade through fog of intoxication until that broiling flame sourcing the shadow broadened. Then their Lord stepped up to shoot this thunder of his throat & silence their bickering. “Our decision holds. Aris shall go east & Mordaunt shall preserve him before reuniting with us to fulfill his contract with his Lady to be. Consider these plans privilege showered upon your shoulders with honors.”
“Through wedding Portia, Mordaunt inherits her portly dowry. Aris, to rule as my proxy over what remains of his addled kin. Remold them into servants that please thee. Through leading this Trail of Judgement ye shall be hailed the greatest of heroes with venerable lineage in Light.”