North Cenoka, Sanctuary of the Seven Human Sacraments

Rätsel with her strawberry-blond hair and concealed hazel eyes, sits demurely and immensely satisfied. She had no plan when she called for this celebration of the sacraments but hoped she could exploit the event of Yellow’s death to strengthen her standing underneath the Free’er.

A plan began to take form while she was partaking of gluttony and lust. Those have always been her favorite and she enjoys combing the two. Now with everyone’s desires sated she watches the surviving servants clean up the scraps and corpses.

Next to her is Yara, the bureaucratic head of the Dragon Temples of North Cenoka. Who even with a blurred face, her obsidian skin and shiny white hair would make her the most recognizable person in the world. Except the role of controlling the Dragon Priesthood and the unexpected weapons manufacturing initiative has allowed her to indulge in using correspondence and intermediaries to keep things moving while sequestering herself in the Dragon temples.

Yara accusingly addresses her ally, “Rätsel, it’s been two days, and you’ve not stated a purpose for this gathering. It’s beginning to feel like you only wanted to celebrate Yellow’s death.

“While we all feel the same on this one issue that isn’t a cause for all this,” gesturing to the human arm on the table before her.”

“I called for this celebration of the sacraments to strengthen all our bonds. It’s times like these that we must set aside some of the teachings and cooperate.

“The empire will survive; we can install a new emperor or reestablish a senate to run things for a while. None of it will matter once our fleet is finished.”

“The fleet, how is it coming along?”

Trebor, freshly returned after having changed outfits returns to the table. The blood-stained ceremonial white linen worn by the others, freshly replaced by a gray Vorg business suit and little shoe covers to protect his brown polished shoes from the stick floor, “Yes, tell us how you’re falling behind schedule.”

A fresh chair is provided by a servant, allowing him to sit cleanly so long as he doesn’t touch the tabletop. Running a manicured hand through his short black hair before adjusting his tie he adds, “…or will you give more excuses?”

Rätsel doesn’t let the swipe distract her, “Now that entire litters are no longer be taken by Yellow for his own pleasures, the original deadline may be attainable.”

Tepey, still gnawing on a finger bone at the head of the table remains silent. Insecure of his position as the last disciple recruited by Yellow, he overcompensates by looking every bit like the animal-god he fancies himself. His light brown hair is splotched with black circles, and his ever-present Jaguar stole, and headpiece grant a savage aura. A devotion to bodily strength and perfection is obvious by his muscular, lean build. If his facial features were not blurred like the others his rarely blinked, golden eyes with elliptical pupils might distract from the fact that he also has fangs.

The next disciple to speak is the financier Dhanashree, her purple hair already had red tips before the spray of blood that still stains her face soaked her. Purposely pitching her voice high and speaking in a sing-song manor, knowing it grates on everyone’s nerves, “Didn’t I hear, you propose, working closer, to-gether?”

“We’ve always worked together, that was the only way we could keep Yellow in check. Without a common enemy, what do you think we’re going to do? Do you think we’ll be any different than the humans below with their petty struggles for power?”

Tepey growls, “Do not compare me to that filth.”

Trebor interjects, “I agree with the feline deity impersonator but for different reasons. They are simpletons, and easily manipulated. Most of what they do is a result of our own machinations after all. It’s possible without our interference keeping them stressed out and off balance they might actually be nice to one another.”

“Check your egos, it’s you two I’m most worried about. If you both try to take Yellow’s standing with the Free’er you’ll only tear each other apart.”

Trebor laughs, “Is this where you propose to nobly take that position in our stead?”

That’s exactly what she wants, and Trebor agreed to back her while they were partaking of lust together. Is he already turning on her?

Dhanashree thoughtfully sings, “Hold on, you might be on-to something. Perhaps I should, make the same, offer myself.”

Tepey suppresses an urge to smack Dhana, “If we need a new leader, maybe it’s time we look in a younger direction.”

Trebor smoothly shuts him down, “Forget it, you’d have us all dressed in ridiculous cat costumes. That’s never happening.”

Yara chuckles at Trebor’s assessment and adds, “Count me out, I have enough to do. With the Dragon going silent, she’s even ghosting her priests. They are quite distraught, and production is suffering as a consequence.

“We’re all supposed to be equal beneath the Free’er. We have all been given our own domains, why does anything need to change?”

Rätsel was ready for this objection, “And who was it that assigned us each a domain while leaving himself free to do as he pleased?

“Our dearly departed Yellow, that’s who.

“One of us will take control of our group. Are we going to leave it up to the strongest among us to take control or use a more civilized method?”

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Trebor scoffs, “You can’t be suggesting we hold an election, we’d all vote for ourselves, solving nothing.”

“What if we can’t vote for ourselves?”

“Who can we trust to count the votes, and trust them not to cheat?”

Rätsel is smiling inwardly, while displaying a stern countenance outwardly, “Yara has already said she doesn’t want the job. She has no horse in this race, she should count.”

The group falls silent, supposedly considering the proposal.

Trebor slowly as if he’s thinking it out as he speaks, “I like the idea of there being a single deciding vote for cases where we all disagree. And if I don’t like how things are going, well… might does make right.”

Dhanashree is the first to speak, “What would this leader’s role entail, exactly?”

Rätsel has put a lot of thought to this answer. She must make the job sound small and unimportant. She can usurp more power once established, “There can’t be much to it. After all Yellow only got away with telling us what to do on the rare occasions the Free’er forced us to work together as we already are.”

Yara speaks again, “I accept the task of counting the votes. I would also abstain from participating but that would open us to a possible 2-2 outcome. Should the vote go 2-2-1, we’ll have a runoff between the top two.”

Trebor adds, “Unless there’s a need for further discussion let’s get this over with. I have a train to catch.”

Tepey adds, “Yes, let us appoint a leader so we have someone to blame when things don’t go right.”

While this short debate unwound, the surviving servants continued to clean, all traces of death have been erased from the room. Even the little shoe covers Trebor had been wearing have been removed.

Trebor pulls a notebook from his jacket inside pocket and tears out five pages. Writing each of their names at the top he passes them out, “Write the name of your nominee below your name and pass it to Yara.”

With little to no consideration, everyone waits for Trebor’s pen to scrawl a name on their piece of paper and passes it to Yara.

Yara glances at each in turn and looks a little disappointed, “I thought there would be at least one attempt to cheat.

“Congratulations, Rätsel. You’re the new Yellow. Don’t let it go to your hea…

“Rätsel! Your face!”

“I was about to say the same to you.”

A quick glance around the room, reveals her fear, “We’ve all lost our blur, where have the servants gone?”

The feeling of being crushed by having space itself fold you in half permeates all five disciples. There is only one being capable of such as this. All five stumble to the ground and prostrate themselves.

There are no footfalls to be heard, his armor has always allowed him to move in silence.

A voice like a hundred men speaking as one, whispers, “Stand and receive your instructions.”

Rätsel can’t believe the timeliness of her voting ploy. She is already in a position to capitalize whatever new instructions they receive.

He may have commanded them to stand but he’s still exerting his will over them. All five disciples beg their spirits to fortify their will, barely fighting off the urge to kill oneself to escape the irrational fear of getting crushed to a mote in space.

Upright they put on their best appearance of strength and stare at the godlike figure before them. Black armor made of dragon scale flows like cloth against skin they’ve never seen. Towering over them at three yards, he peers through his bascinet’s visor condescendingly.

His voluminous voice once again whispers, “The one you called Yellow died, blaspheming my name.

“As I knew he would, as you all will, eventually.

“Until that time comes there is little change.

“Disciple Rätsel, continue to build the navy.

“Disciple Tepeyollotl, use the navy to invade the south and kill all you can find. Spare no one.

“Disciple Trebor, keep the Peoples Province of Vorg out of battle.”

“Disciple Yara, increase production by leaking weapon designs to the south.”

“Disciple Dhanashree, tighten the money supply and create food shortages. Starve the population until they produce colonizers outside the pits.”

As fast as he appeared, he disappeared, likewise the servants that had been missing are back busily polishing the floor and sacred table.

After reassuring one another that their anonymity had resumed, it was as if he was never there.

“Well, that was exciting, but I still have a train to catch.”

Rätsel adds, “Yes, he said no big changes. That means you all know what needs to be done,” not exactly a command, but that’s as close to sounding in charge as she can manage under the circumstances.

Everyone goes their separate ways.

Returning to her wing of the sanctuary, lost in thought, Rätsel wanders into the baths where she allows herself to be stripped. She barely notes the familiar sensation of scrubbing and rinsing she receives as two days of sex, murder, and gluttony are washed from her body.

A lone man is waiting for her with her preferred white gown in his wrinkled hands.

She thinks it odd for there to be an elderly man working in the bath, but they did kill an exceptional number of servants in their enthusiasm over Yellow’s timely death; perhaps this is the best the remaining staff can provide.

Turning her back and holding out her arms, she waits for the old man to dress her.

The warmth of her blood cascading down her breasts is the first indication that something is wrong. Followed closely by an elderly hand coming from behind and grabbing her head, pulling her back into his chest.

Next a piercing pain stabs through her left kidney as the same dragon scale knife that slit her throat plunges into her side.

Rätsel is outraged, to be attacked in their sanctuary is blasphemous and must be the work of another disciple, the obvious candidate being Trebor.

She releases a boon of healing and feels a surge of blood fill her neck. There’s no release of energy to activate the stem cells and her blood continues to spill from her open throat. A growing crimson pool now surrounds the two.

Weakening hands bat at her assailant’s head. She attempts to scratch him but hasn’t the strength. Trying to choke out the word, “how” she only spits more blood.

Her killer must have known what she wanted to hear because he responds quietly, “This blade was made to kill your kind, your spirit cannot stop it, nor can you use your spirit while the blade pierces your body, unless I allow it. No healing, no fighting, no summoning help. This is a treasured family heirloom, a gift from the Free’er himself.

“I would end you quickly, but this is personal, and I want you to suffer.”

Lowering her to the floor, the assassin uses a hammer to shatter bones one at a time until after twelve excruciating minutes Rätsel dies.

He knows he remains unobserved from years of honing his ability and reflexively shifts his body from existing as a collection of particles into a quantum wave, from which he waves himself back to his private cleansing room at the House of Jones and collapses himself back into particles.

Liam LaRousse told Edith he would work to fix the problem he created. This fixed nothing but felt like the right place to start.