Lord Wrath, ruler of the one thousand clans, leader of the most fearsome fighting force on the five continents. Slayer of hydras, the bane of necromancers, the ender of the blood feud of Yamortha. The hidden brother of the current Princess of Embers, master of the Shattered Isles and dealer of death.

Had no idea what he was doing…

He looked over the hall of masked warriors, over the twenty Sentinels standing at attention along both sides of the walkway towards the ancient dragon bone throne behind him. He let himself drop slowly into his faith-no HIS throne. Before he could even become content in the seat of the Lord of Masks one of his advisers approached the throne. A talented member of the Clan of Envy named Tristan walked up to the foot of the throne and stopped before he reached the first step as was proper. The older man looked up at him with emerald eyes, scroll in one hand and quill in another. Nodding at his liege he tapped said quill against the parchment, crossing out something or another before speaking.

"My Lord, I realise that this may seem in haste but I believe it to be of the utmost importance to begin the selection process." He spoke dropping to one knee with his head lowered, in a somewhat rushed tone.

Not that any could blame the man, he honestly desired to get this over with as well…

He resisted the urge to palm his face in exasperation. Not that it would have done him any good with his favoured mask in the way. Motioning silently for the son of Envy to proceed with his duties. The retainer had served his father well with his gift of recollection, able to remember and relay information with the utmost accuracy without fail. Truly, they must have been favoured by one of the Gods to receive such a gift.

He took a moment to enjoy his magic veins connecting with the ancient throne as the older Mask faded from view with a displacement spell, a technique passed down to him by Lord Envy no doubt. Typically users of mystical, or more infrequently, divine powers needed some kind of precise focus to be utilised. Be it through chants, runes, seals, rituals, wands, stances, artifacts, or some other such catalyst. Mortal beings were generally restricted in how they used power beyond their physical means.

The Masks as well as all other Blessed races such as the Amazons, Elves, Mermaids and others of their ilk were not bound by this limitation. Gifted by their deities with what many now called flawless magic veins. A secondary set of veins, spreading from their magic core located in the chest and using the physical veins as an anchor to spread to all sections of the body. Of course, most other beings of power had magic veins as well. Mages often had them located in their hands and jaws primarily in the fingers. Priests often used a well-defined core and veins in their throats to call upon holy miracles through righteous sermons.

However they were trained, their chosen path to power was only an incomplete unlocking of the potential strength one could possess. One who used a flawless vein system did not need chants, rituals, sacrifices, wands and staffs. No, power flowed through every fibre of their bodies and combined with the natural fortitude of their kind and it made for a rather dangerous combination.

When the Gods rewarded mortal races for assisting in the subjugation of a demonic invasion they did not take half measures it seemed. The Elves would likely agree with the masks in this regard, though never out loud, arrogant fools they were.

Such reasons were why a majority of the Blessed raised their youngest children away from the civilizations of more delicate species. It wouldn't be too long before five year olds snapping the limbs of grown men they happened to accidentally run into in twain became suspect after all.

The young lord was shaken out of his thoughts as the large doors to the ancient hall opened, the Lord of Sympathy walking tall and proud with his lady daughter at his heels in the ceremonial armoured gown of a noblewoman. She looked almost like a painting, with her gown flowing behind her in waves of silver. Contrasting with the long dark locks falling behind her steel-clad shoulders and framing her dark eyes.

“You may approach.” The voice of the monarch rings out across the hall, giving verbal permission for the first of the in a long list of might be chosen to step before the throne.

She walks towards him, her head held high though her eyes glued to the carpet beneath her feet. Lord Sympathy merely steps behind her, not wanting to take any attention off of his kin.

“Jennifer Loxly of the Clan of Sympathy,” The heiress speaks with a curtsy as soon as she reaches the bottom of the steps.

She looks a lot like her mother, Wrath thought idly, so much so that had her father not been present Wrath would have questioned whether or not he was looking at a phantom.

“A healer are you?” He asks in a monotone voice, not quite interested in having a borderline pacifist as his Lady Consort.

“No, my Lord, I did not trot the road that many of my clansmen chose to.” She stands up straight and looks in his direction but does not dare to look him in the eyes. “I am a practitioner of black magic.”

“Ha!” Wrath laughs, unable to contain his mirth. “To think one born to a clan that has dedicated themselves to healing would pick an art that is based around draining life for her own use.”

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Lord Sympathy visibly stiffens at his quip, clearly a sore subject for the man. It is not entirely rare for someone born of a clan to venture into a profession outside that of which their clan specialises. Yet, it is rare for the kin of the lord and ladies to do so, as they often feel a sense of duty to their people.

“I wished to walk my own path, not the path chosen for me…” She fades off, glancing at her father before returning searching eyes to the Lord of Wrath.

“So you took your fate into your own hands…” Wrath finishes for the heir of Sympathy. “Admirable.”

“Thank you.” She bows her head low at the praise, likely to hide a smile.

“I suspect your decision did not go well with your people.” Wrath shifts his gaze to the side, eyes sliding over to her father.

He already has the answer by the way she stiffens up at the question and her cheeks flushed hotly.

“Not at all,” She lets loose an uncomfortable laugh, a hand playing with the cuff of a sleeve nervously. “though I think they will come around with time.”

The determination in her eyes moved him deep within his core. He knew, more than most, what it was like for something to be expected of you from birth. Luckily for her, she did not have the fate of the clans on upon her shoulders and no one to replace her. Though he admired the drive she showed greatly, the ability to forsake her duty for her own goals… made the heiress of Sympathy unfit to be his consort.

“That will be all.” He spoke curtly, having made his decision.

Lord Sympathy’s face fell instantly, gaze hardened, glaring daggers into the back of his daughter's head. All the blood drained from her face and the splattering of pink that had dusted the cheeks of Sympathy’s scion just moments before vanished in an instant.

“M..my Lord,” She stuttered out with a final bow, her father mimicking her movements.

Wrath gives a nod of acknowledgement, noticing the black mage begin to sweat as she stood upright. Her hands balled into trembling fists and at first, he thought it was rage. But with a deep breath, the scent of fear dispels that notion. Looking closely at the Lord of Sympathy he knew that something foul would befall the woman soon. The look his father drilled into her back was as hellfire. The ruler shrugs as he watches the pair exit the room, it wasn’t his place to intervene in such things.

Wrath resisted the urge to sigh aloud as the doors announced the arrival of the next hopeful. This lady was a petite thing, short too, if he’d been standing before her the woman would nary come up to his chest. That, however, was not what had caught his attention.

He swore he could hear Lord Commander Rizal laughing somewhere up above. The Lord of Wrath briefly considered throwing a fireball at the man, before dismissing the notion.

Before him stood a beaming Princess Misery, eyes gleaming with wonder as she looked up at him. The sight made him want to groan, but he restrained himself. Sophia Whittaker was a woman he had expected to see today, he had just hoped against it.

Sophia Whittaker, Princess of Misery, was a young woman with a striking presence. Her long, fire-coloured hair cascaded down her back and her large light brown eyes sparkled with intensity. She was a short woman with an air of regal poise that was unmistakable. Her skin was the colour of porcelain and her features were delicate, yet he knew the woman to be as dangerous as they come. True, she did not dive into the centre of conflict, yet he had been on many a battlefield where her spells had turned both land and sea into a blazing inferno that swallowed her enemies.

“My Lord Father apologises for his absence, as always, he leads your armada my Lord Wrath.” The scion of Misery gave a low curtsey, voice purring, eyes never leaving his masked face.

The Lord in question was the current Lord Admiral of the combined Armada, a hard and dower man who suffered no fools. Sophia, the youngest of his children had inherited not only his abilities in fire magic but also his love of alchemy. Particularly of the explosive kind, much to the horror of many an enemy captain. Wrath had personally witnessed the woman before him concocting explosive mixtures by the dozens. He was half certain if she had been a mortal a good portion of her face would have been burned away by now.

“Lady Misery-” The young woman scoffed at the words.

“Come now, we’ve known each other since we were babes darling, Sophia, Sophia!” She chided, a smile playing on her lips.

“...Lady Misery,” The rebuff made the woman pout, full lips plumping at the action. “It’s a pleasure to see you safe and whole, if a bit earlier than expected.”

“Oh darling, I come back from my voyage to the Ember Region to find you in need of a consort,” She smiled at him now, her joviality returning in full. “How could I not return with all haste?”

The daughter of Misery seemed to nearly pulse in pleasure at the idea. For years she had propositioned him only to be rebuffed. As heirs of two great clans, it would go against all decorum for them to wed without their lords' and ladies' approval after all. But now his father was dead and her own had clearly sent her to him now.

He wondered how many pirates she had immolated on her way to the capital…

“Still you’ve many pining young lass to judge under that smouldering gaze of yours.” She noted, turning away from the throne, much to his surprise.

“I have to say, I was expecting you to break out all the stops, perhaps a bit of seduction.” He admitted freely.

“Don’t be silly my dear I know you better than that,” She tittered behind a hand. “You’ve already learned all you can about each and every Sword Maiden that shall walk through those doors.”

“As you say, but I’ve never known you to let such things as fact stop you.” He noted, thinking back to her many exploits, most of which had ended in something burning or exploding.

“True enough, but still, even if you do not choose me in the end…every great lord needs concubines does he not?” She asked, strutting away with a heavy sway to her full hips.

“This is going to be a long night…” The Lord of Wrath grumbled to himself under his breath watching his old comrade leave the throne room.