A lonely stretch of road leads to a well-kept tavern that contrasts the dark and uncivilized surroundings. A group of seven men enter with the confidence of Thatos himself. They are expecting to meet with Asta and her death dealers. As they enter, they notice only two others in the tavern. A woman with flowing dark brown hair with a vague hint of red, sitting comfortably at the bar with a bottle and a glass in front of her. Her outfit exposing most of her warm fawn skin that looks of liquid sand cascading down the gorgeous curves of her body. Contrasted by the armored and forbidding Nelfan stoically standing at the end of the bar. One of the men entering raises his hand signaling to the rest to hold back as he approaches the bar. He takes note of her attire and deduces that given her outfit she cannot possibly be one of the death dealers of legend. As he nears the woman he almost subconsciously picks up on her confidence; she doesn’t even take note of their boisterous entrance. He shrugs this off, interpreting it as timidness. He leans on the bar next to her and attempts to meet her gaze; “I’m Vicar El, are you supposed to be a peace offering. “Vicar says with a smirk, he reaches out and kneads a strand of her hair between his fingers.
“I fear you may lack the faculties to comprehend such an offering had it been extended” Asta calmly delivers her response. Her frustration mounts as she realizes that Treggin sent such insignificant mortals, that account for some of his lowest ranks, to meet with her. The slight is nothing short of egregious. Then just as he opens his mouth and begins to reach for her, in an instant before the noise coming from his mouth can take shape, Asta jams her two fingers in his eye sockets running them deep enough to hook the bottom of the socket forcing him to his knees. As the man screams in pain Asta, with little effort, tosses him aside. She returns to her drink.
The men shocked, begin moving towards Asta. They surmise she must be a death dealer. They know they stand little chance against such a warrior, but fleeing now would bring an even worse fate at the hands of their very organization. Nelfan moves quickly to obstruct their path to Asta. All six men draw their swords and move towards Nelfan. Nelfan notices the three in front begin their assault on him. He blocks the swordsman on the far left with the metal plate on his forearm; ducks underneath the center swordsman’s attack and slashes his blade at the middle of the swordsman’s torso exploiting an exposed area in his armor. The swordsman to the right reacts to his movement and lunges his sword at Nelfan. The attack is successful, as it pierces Nelfan’s torso he drops to a knee to offset its trajectory turning it into a glancing blow.
As the action is unfolding Asta sits at the bar unphased; she dips her bloodied fingers into her drink. Lightly stirring, pushing the ice aside and dissolving the blood amongst the alcohol. She contemplates how she must respond to this insult. Her first reaction is violence and death, but she tries to abate such thoughts in search of a more effective path; as the circle of Śmierć is vital to her plans. Even if she is able to overcome their might, the circle will be fractured and any hope of using their influence will be gone.
Meanwhile, Nelfan rolls away from the other swordsman and runs his blade through the swordsman to the left’s gut-his blood and viscera shooting outward. Nelfan moving towards another attacker, while positioning the table between them and the other two remaining men. Asta lifts her fingers from the glass and takes a sip. Vicar whimpering as he gently feels his eyes. His distress grows as he cannot recognize their popped and oozing state. As Asta sets her glass down. Asta fuses her conscious energy with Vicar’s blood. Asta can feel Vicar’s meager chakra reserves. The more blood she ingests the more she can feel and begin to control. Vicker, like most, has never trained thus there is little to prevent Asta’s will.
Nelfan-now across the room-breathes heavily but steady. The swordsman nearest him lifts his blade and drives it down towards his left shoulder; Nelfan jolts his hand up meeting the blade mid-air splitting deep into his palm he grips the sword tightly-with a powerful kick he launches the table at the two remaining swordsmen, then drives his blade deep into the chest cavity of his attacker. Nelfan pulls a dagger from his leg and hurls it at the swordsman still standing, who managed to nearly avoid the table, the dagger darts past his neck cutting deeply, blood retching out sprinkling the surroundings. He makes his way to the swordsman under the table and throws the table to the side as he does the swordsman lashes out wildly Nelfan drops to his knee sinking his sword deep into the swordsman. The swordsman’s blade is forced partially through Nelfan’s armor piercing him by his own action.
Vicar suddenly ceases his deep howls and begins panting heavily. Nelfan slowly stands up stumbling backwards. As he feels one of his stomach wounds his head lightens from the loss of blood before his mind drifts completely and blacks out, he regains his senses and catches himself. Nelfan’s mouth fills with saliva thickened by blood. He spits it to the ground as he walks slowly towards Asta. He stops short of her with his forearm across his torso attempting to abate the continued damage of his injuries.
Asta leans back “it’s no wonder Amneka is unable to assimilate the clans,” she pauses to grip her glass as she calmly explains; “if this prosaic example of martial combat is a paragon of the average man.” Asta says, emboldened by their meager display of power. She finds her thoughts wandering, as she contemplates the emergence of crystal technology and alchemy to elevate a group of such insignificant beings in lieu of teaching those of worth hand signs or magic. Nelfan coughs, the exertion of his chest tormenting his lesions. He moves towards Vicar- blade ready to end his suffering. Asta snaps towards him; “No, he will be our new medium” Asta as she looks down at Vicar who is hyperventilating and narrowly avoids choking on his own blood and spit. “And you shall take him. If he dies before he can relay his message, I will hold you responsible. After all, this meeting you secured has proved to be a waste of my time.” Asta angered by the implication; the circle of Śmierć sending such men to meet with her, and how it contrasted the lofty expectations Nelfan had expressed earlier.
Nelfan interrupting his rhythmic deep breathing to obediently reply; “My lady. I urge you to pursue peace.” He pauses to take another much-needed breath, as his heart rate pulses from the action moments ago. “The circle is the most powerful criminal organization this realm has ever known” he argues.
Asta replies; “Don’t underestimate me.” Asta charges to her feet grabbing Nelfan’s jaw clenching it tight enough to lift him in the air and support his weight straining his neck and jaw. “I was born in blood and death. The circle shall carry out my will or be crushed by the weight of it.” She thunders as she drops him to the ground and walks towards the exit. She knows that there is a good chance Nelfan will be killed, but the prospect is appealing as it will be the last excuse she needs to signal a shift in tactics. Allowing her to act more directly.
The following day far away in the capital region of Thoraza within the city and kingdom of the same name. An elegant hall is filled with citizens and politicians of note. Donned in gowns and suits, they mingle on a large open floor, above them is a balcony that traces the wall. On one end of the room, large red and gold carpeted stairs lead to the upper level of the balcony. A guileful piano tune lurks through the room accentuating the shared civility, and grace. To the south end of the room there is an especially well-dressed man, Ruvaen, holding himself with differentiating refinement. He stands in a circle mingling with a few lords and a fellow regent, Quarto Coletto, of Lodka.
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“I'm just glad Quarto is willing to let me take all the credit.”
The group chuckles softly adding to the vague chatter throughout the room. The lords amongst them made uneasy by the nature of their superior’s jokes.
“For the best, I fear even something as noble as this would end up being held against me.” Quarto playfully counters before taking a sip of his wine. The Two lords, Pardo and Odius smile slightly hiding their uncomfortability, as if they are unsure as to how the Regents would want them to react to their exchange. Ruvaen takes note of this and revels in their innate obedience. In moments like this he is able to remind himself of the heights he was able to climb, moving quickly past the titles magistrate and lord to gain Regent.
“Gentlemen.” A man with a distinctively dark suit and an air of confidence greets the group from behind. Pardo and Quarto turn to take note of him; Quarto steps slightly to the side inviting the man into the circle.
Pardo anxiously takes two steps aside while inviting the man; “Neldor… uh sir… good evening” he says with a tense smile and head nod. Attempting to exhibit a respectful confidence. Padro is taken by surprise not expecting to see anyone more prominent than Regents, the most notable amongst them being Ruvaen.
Neldor stares at Pardo as if he is waiting for the anxiety to kill him. After a moment Ruvaen seems less pleased as before. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your attendance?” Ruvaen asks.
Neldor removes his hands from his suit pant pocket, crosses them and rests them at his waist. He takes a deep breath in and replies; “Well I suppose the grace of Thatos, no?” he says holding back a smirk.
Odius quickly bows his head and politely interjects; “I have to make my exit as Lisacus City will be hosting the lords of the region in the coming weeks and there is still much work Regent Euric has for me. Congratulations once again on making our lands that much more secure.” Odius say’s in the hope that his superiors won’t fault him for his departure or notice his disquiet.
Ruvaen gestures to Odius with his free hand, as if to say thank you and paving the way to his exit. Lord Pardo follows Odius’s lead; “Yes, thank you Ruvaen as always if you need anything.” Pardo says with a quick nod and exit.
Neldor continues; “Quarto would you mind if I borrow Ruvaen for a moment.” he says expecting a certain answer.
Quarto finishes the remaining wine in his glass and answers; “He is slowing down my drinking anyway” with a grin he takes his leave. Neldor then gestures towards the large staircase not far from them. Ruvaen understands he wants to speak in his office.
Ruvaen takes note of his command and defies it with a distraction; “of course let me just get some of these appetizers they are exquisite” he snaps his fingers and signals to the wait staff to come towards him. Ruvaen maintaining eye contact while the waiter makes his way over; the silent rebellion ferments in this moment. “you should really try one.” Ruvaen remarks as he grabs a pastry off the waiter’s plate.
Neldor stands unpleased by the distraction but attempts to guise it; “no thank you I won’t have the luxury of staying long” Neldor responds in an attempt to signal to Ruvaen that his visit wasn’t social and likely a direct request of the council.
Ruvaen sets his glass on the tray and grabs one more before heading up the stairs. They arrive in a large office. With a personal library attached to the main room a large desk commands the space. The office is well kept, but clearly used. Ruvaen walks towards his desk pulls a cigar from a glass display behind it, examines it for a moment. After Ruvaen’s inhales, sniffing the leaves “So Neldor what important word does the council have for me?” Ruvaen sees Neldor as the epitome of what is wrong with Amneka’s politics. He lacks vision and direction of his own, only mirroring what has been done in a pathetic attempt to keep things afloat. Ruvaen sees Amneka as a great opportunity to raise all mortals and give every being a chance.
Neldor walks over to a shelf on the wall and examines a statue from a less civilized area of Prósdesi, likely not within one of the unified regions. He steals the moment and poises for his response; “Well it is really just an extension of your current accomplishment” Neldor pauses as he tilts his head further examining the statue luring in Ruvaen’s eagerness; “As you well know the clans still pose a considerable risk to the land and our country. Not to mention the continued diversion from Divine Thatos’ vision for our future.” Neldor turns and makes eye contact with Ruvaen signaling the apex of the conversation. “Thus, the council has decided it is time to open a region over the main clans in the center of Prósdesi bordering Tjóðr.” Neldor finishes.
Ruvaen seems distressed he sets his cigar down and his eyes widened, he desperately tries to set the tone he is hoping for; “And… I will be assisting in the formation?” Ruvaen with a pregnant pause. Eager to have his fears of being transferred to a newly formed region whelmed.
“You know very well that this is no ordinary culmination. It will likely prove to be one of the most difficult culminations, perhaps even the most difficult challenge, Amneka faces.” Neldor impatiently retorts taking an even more authoritative tone.
Ruvaen clenches his jaw and looks at his cuffs adjusting them while his mind races through the political consequences of being transferred to draft a new region. Given his current standing in the most influential region in all of Prósdesi and his accomplishments as a Regent, he should be gearing to become a high council member or a hand of the council at the very least. Is this an indication of how the council sees him? Why send Neldor? After a brief moment he reclaims his thoughts. “Can I assume there will be a formal hearing, at least, to go over the specifics?” Ruvaen cordially replies.
“No, with the issues arising in Dewmire and the Cyrim accords meeting ahead of the customary and antecedently determined schedule, such a hearing will not be possible.” Neldor lectures. Ruvaen’s quick and atypical rise to Regent suddenly seems like a disadvantage as he lacks the more seasoned resume to challenge such a decision.
Ruvaen breaths in quickly forcing his lips tightly together as if he is trying to maintain his composure. He blurts out loudly; “But this isn’t” he takes pause to lower his voice; “This isn’t an ordinary circumstance. There is much to go over and while I appreciate your role there are certainly some things I will have to speak to the council directly about. Based upon my experience as a Regent to simply try and roll this out would be well nothing short of audacious.” Hoping to convince Neldor that moving forward would be a decision on his shoulders, and that any mistakes could come to bear upon them.
Neldor seems taken aback by Ruvaen’s forwardness and responds diplomatically; “I will share your grievances with the council; however, the expectation is that you will have your culmination thesis ready for a lateral declaration in seven days. We will be in contact.” He turns and heads towards the door as Ruvaen bites his bottom lip. He is relieved to hear that Neldor will be reporting back to the council. However, Neldor reaching out displaying lack of certitude in himself proves to further frustrate Ruvaen. What does the High Council see in such average competence?
Just as Neldor’s hand grips the large gold ostentatious handle of the door; “Who then?” Ruvaen asks wanting to know who shall rob him of the Regency of the capitol Region.
Neldor quickly processes and understands his question. Ruvaen’s replacement is not immediately important, but nonetheless he offers him a small token. “Nothing official yet for the long term. Obviously Euric and Quarto are the front runners. We’ll leave the interim up to you.” Neldor exits.
Ruvaen takes a moment to process the abruptness and inconsideration shown to him; this night was set aside to celebrate accomplishments he worked tirelessly to achieve for the very council that did this. The more he thinks of his night, and how upside down it now feels, his anger bubbles to the top. He grabs a decorative bottle filled with alcohol and hurls it at the wall, shattering it. In that moment he feels the reprieve that lashing out has given him, while at the same time intensifying his obsession.