Locust was a vain man if one only saw him from a distance. He could understand all the whispers behind his back, the servants' gossip and even his wife’s disappointment. But they did not understand.
He walked into his private bathroom, his wife standing in front of the mirror. His eyes ran over her generous figure and she smirked at him. A constant stream of clear water was coming out of the tap next to her. She used it to gently wash off her makeup. The runework was dwarven. No human had ever been able to replicate it, safe for the Church’s thaumaturges. And those only worked for their sheep. The [King] and [Lord]s got everything they needed. But what about the people of Eterios? What about the other human countries? Clifrig was hungry at the best of times. A few lamps of growth more evenly spread instead of restricted to the Cathedral’s most loyal servants would do a ton for his people.
He had grown up in the capital and saw the miners work hard. He had travelled the province with his father, seeing the small towns everywhere. Nobody was living in the conditions they deserved. And the [Lord] did nothing to help them. So he had to take measures into his own hands. He had sent traders and diplomats to the dwarves and requested help. He had asked for some of his people to be trained in artificing. But they had denied him. He was a human. He could not be trusted.
“Why are you making such a grim face, my love?”, his wife said.
“Apologies, I am lost in my mind.”
“Come here.”
She put her arms around his neck and gave him a deep kiss. She might no longer believe in the importance of his mission but at least she was still supporting him in her own way. He entered the shower to wash off the sweat of the party. Another marvel of the dwarves. Warm water and soap cleansed his body. And his wife was waiting for him right after, lounging on their shared bed. Today was one of those times. They both enjoyed the company of their maids in the second bedroom but sometimes just being alone with each other was best.
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The next morning was busy. He had several appointments with his compatriots to iron out the details. It would not be long before they could make their move. Then, his [Organizer], Borg Bricklay, suddenly visited. Apparently, someone had stolen his documents detailing the movement of goods for their mission. Locust was furious, even more so when the fool told him he had no idea who had stolen it or when.
It took most of his effort to not blow up in the man’s face. Borg had never been good at politics or security. His whole value was in his management Skills. It was not his fault someone had taken an interest in them, either. Locust had taken position rather openly to recruit more supporters for their cause.
The man gritted his teeth and moved on. They would have to accelerate the plan. The mine was full of weapons, the townspeople ready for their mission. Nobody would leave Trade Town for the next month. And then, they would move in to take out the dwarves. With enough hostages, a negotiation should be possible.
At least Borg also brought good news. The brigands they stationed were taken out. He would not have to pay them. And the town was still untouched, including the dry mine. Nobody had made the connection, yet.
With a force of effort, Locust steeled his mind. He made his way through the hallways, past whispering servants and the statues. There was his favourite hawk, sitting on a rock with its wings calmly pressed to its sides and a look of superiority and strength. It always observed the people walking through the mansion, reminding them they were not at the top.
He moved on to his personal meeting room. A few other nobles came and went to discuss their involvement in his business. Only a few of them knew the details of his plans and those were led to his private office, but that would not happen until the afternoon.
Eventually, a butler called him for lunch. Locust had calmed down completely by now and the whispers following his passing were much calmer as well. He entered the main hall in the heart of his mansion and walked past the empty armours lining the walls. They were beautifully polished, the golden ornaments gleaming in the sunlight and framing the deep blue paint covering the steel. He had only one armour he was truly proud of. It was made of solid thaumium and bought directly from the Church by his father. An heirloom without compare. Locust stood still in front of it to admire the closed faceplate with its tiny slits. The beautifully simple make of the pauldrons and chest piece. The fine engravings lining the gauntlets. He gently patted the leg and moved on.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The dining hall was directly adjourned to the main hall and dominated by a huge table. A long blue tablecloth ran along its length and a few vases with fresh flowers were placed on top. He personally preferred red but the Church pissed him off so he settled for his second favourite colour.
His wife and son were already sitting at one end of the table and he joined them at the head. The food was brought and pleasant conversation was held. His son was meek but friendly. He would need to strengthen his composure but it was quite likely he would be a good head of the house.
Suddenly, the room darkened. They looked outside the wide windows and spotted grey clouds covering the sky. It only took minutes before a huge thunderstorm broke out. Servants brought out vis lamps and the family continued their meal.
“Why, this is a bother”, his wife said, “I was planning on meeting Cecille later.”
“You could just take the carriage, no?”
She frowned.
“I had invited her but she has no decent means of reaching us without getting hit by this downpour.”
“Send our carriage”, Locust said, “We will not need it today.”
“Ah, thank you, my love.”
She smiled and waved to a servant. A few minutes later, their well-protected carriage was leaving with two servants carrying oil-treated leather affixed to sticks. Some new shtick imitating the silk umbrellas used to protect against sunlight. His wife was still sceptical of their use. Her wide dresses would still get wet and heavy in the rain unless she had herself surrounded by servants.
They finished their meals and spent some time together. Catching rest was important and using that time to connect with his family was killing two birds with one stone. Locust helped his son with some questions one of his tutors had brought up. Or at least he tried to. The boy was incredibly smart even though he just recently turned 15. That was why Locust still had high hopes for him.
A few hours later, his wife was happily having tea with her friend Cecille while his son was sitting in the library and studying. With both of them busy, nobody would interrupt his meeting with the trusted core of his operation. Four people were sharing his office after he personally deactivated the wards for just a moment to let them in. His trusted maid was serving them tea. The only servant that was keyed-in to the protections was a diminutive girl with a sharp tongue. His wife had brought her as a personal handmaiden which he quickly found out was because of a romantic relationship. The girl had even managed to seduce him at one point which his wife only found funny. When guests were there, she knew how to behave herself.
“Now, I heard some bad news”, the fat Heggins sneered, “What’s going on with that Borg?”
Locust sighed. There was way too much power-playing going on. He was not a fan.
“Yes, the documents were stolen. We do not know by whom. It does not matter. Our plan is only slightly accelerated. We begin in one week.”
There was a click on wood as the lanky Gemrick sat down his teacup.
“That is acceptable, I suppose. Should we move for safety?”
Locust nodded.
“I will travel to Clifrig at the very least. Our mine is still undiscovered. I do not want to draw attention to it quite yet.”
“Are we certain about that?”, Gemrick asked.
“Nobody made a move, yet”, Pappas said, “They might know there are bandits there but they definitely don’t know about the node.”
The man was a priest in the local Church. He would know first if something happened.
Locust gave him a nod.
“There you have it. One week, gentlemen. I hope you are all ready to move.”
They nodded. There was a slightly longer discussion about who would get what part of the dwarven technology to sell which he had to smoothen out. All of them would be dead before they got any money from that. His mission was not to get rich. He would make the land prosper and the people happy.
When they had left, he let out a deep sigh. His maid leaned her back on him and pushed his hands to her breasts.
“Needs some relaxation?”, she asked.
He groped her tightly and sighed in contentment.
“Yes. That would do well.”
She turned around in his arms and pressed up to him. There was a click on the table. Then, there was darkness. He felt something grab his hands and then a weight pushed down on his neck. His skin was pressed down by a sharp object and a crack was heard from the chandelier. The weight on his neck vanished as the heavy object fell. His eyes widened as his body was crushed by the gold.
Breathing became unbearably painful. He heard a scream but it only hurt more. It was his own. His maid was pressed to the door. A shadow of tangible darkness stood behind him. It blocked out nearly all the light from the vis lanterns.
“W… why?”, he managed to get out.
“Greetings from Gregor”, a voice said. It was hollow and deep as if resonating in the deepest halls the Church had ever built.
His maid screeched. She threw herself forwards into the shadows. Her body slid right through without meeting any resistance, then she was out of his sight.
“Farewell”, the voice said, “May you not be misled in your next life.”
He snorted but it only came out as a mixture of blood and spittle. Then, a dark projectile penetrated his head.
The shadows disappeared and left behind a dead man and his maid. A thunderbolt lit up the woman strewn over the table, blood seeping from her throat. People would later say she had taken her own life with the knife in her hand after killing her liege. Only the wife would know it could not be the truth. But nobody believed a mad widow.