by Elijah Morteron » Mon Mar 07, 2005 7:02 pm
Reathin.
Elijah looked out over the city from the balcony of his council quarters. Below him lights flickered like fireflies, and the main road was still heavy with traffic moving in and out of the city. He imagined what it would look like aflame, put to the torch, as the enemy had planned at Reathin.
He was puzzled by the action, not only did it seem a swift strike, but also a poorly planned one. Despite the loss of civilian life, and the destruction of a number of buildings on the sea front, the people of the Port had easily routed the enemy. He didn't have to be Lord Lusoth's bosom pal to know that this event had likely occured beyond the man's knowledge. Perhaps the very same man that Perian had been working for was also responsible for this.
He shivered a little in his open shirt, the night was unusually cold, but he found that that same cold woke his senses up, sharpened them in readiness for the mental jousting that would surely take place at the council table. If Lord Lusoth was worth his salt, Elijah expected an aide to have been dispatched as soon as the mistake had been discovered. He wondered who that person would be, and whether they would be making urgent apologies and excuses, or whether they would use the border infringment to cloud the present issue.
Then there was the other matter. He looked over his shoulder back into the room where the books sat open on his desk.
Ravens and black horses
He cast his mind back to the day that he and Perian, drunk as Lords, had stumbled on the old hag in 'The Breather', the district sailors used to 'relieve' themselves.
She'd looked at him with those eyes. Eyes that couldn't see, but at the same time saw everything. "Harbinger of death. Lord of Misery", she'd called him, backing away even as he and Perian had laughed. "Ravens shall dog your life. As they mark your birth, so shall they be your end."
Nonsense. Nonsense that day by day was making more and more sense.
Shivering again he returned inside, closing the door behind him and basking for a moment in the feeling of warmth permeating his flesh, radiating from the open hearth next to the large oak bookcase. Stepping over to the desk he checked over the letters he had written and ensured they were properly sealed. One to Hemlin with instructions, another to Lady Traimon apologising for his earlier behavior, and a third to his Sergeant at Arms. They'd be carried at dawn with a few gold crowns to spur the messengers to record pace.
Buttoning up his shirt he read the paragraph he had circled in the Arcana for perhaps the fourth time that night, before donning his purple silk robes. He wanted to arrive early, the timing of the arrival of the others would determine for him what their relative knowledge was of the whole affair. If he was right about some of his musings at least one person would already be waiting.
He schooled his expression, adopting an emotionless visage. He locked unneccessary thoughts away in the steel safe within his mind, and set all his faculties to the task at hand. One deep breathe later he was out of the room and on his way.
*****
The Council chamber was circular, doors at dotted at regular intervals around it's wall. White stone pillars created a second circle of sorts, each one marked by a brazier that cast a bright orange glow all about the room. The roof was glass allowing the light of the moons and stars to shine down upon the large crescent table. Five chairs were set at it's outer arc, the middle higher backed for the High Regent. Before it three chairs had been placed where usually there were none ((when a regent wished to address the table he stood)), confirming Elijah's earlier thoughts.
That the room was empty suprised him, but then perhaps it shouldn't have done. Perhaps he underestimated his fellows. He took a seat on the far right of the regent's chair, as befitted his years and status. Darien's seat was beside his, and on the other side were Illian Fythus, a hot headed, balding bull of a man and Xavier Zruus, perhaps the oldest man ever to sit on the council, and the longest serving councilman at the ripe age of one hundred and three.
He thought on the proposed encounter with Darien. He'd hoped to meet up with the Lord before the meeting, but when he'd arrived and enquired, he'd been informed that Coteza was unavailable. He wondered idly what occupied the Regent's time. Perhaps he wasn't the only one to have other business to mind.
A few moments later a door opened and Xavier shuffled into the room, heavily leaning on a stave as tall as himself. They all knew that the old man would not be with the council much longer, either death or senility would take him soon, and it was oft rumoured that the latter had already taken hold. Elijah knew otherwise. The 'old man' had a mind as sharp as a razor.
Soon after Illian ducked his way inside favouring his left leg. His right had taken a bullet in his youth during the last war when he'd saved his commanding officer. It was that heroic status that had granted him office in later life, an office that Elijah knew the man used to the satiation of his more base desires. It wasn't uncommon to find Illian frequenting the houses of ill repute during the early hours. His womanising and gluttonous drinking had taken it's toll and left the man not only with a permanent purple cheeked 'port face' but also, it was rumoured, syphillis.
He exchanged small nods with the men in greeting, but sat in silence, leaving them to idle chatter, Xavier happy to talk unnendingly about some new great grandson he'd been blessed with.
Thankfully Elijah was saved by the arrival of the High Regent. As one the three men stood and half bowed as the slender man with greying temples and strong angular features stepped in resplendent in his own purple robes, slashed with gold lining and edging. The medallion of office hung heavily around his long thin neck, almost seeming to drag him down with it's weight.
Soon they were back in their seats, and Elijah was scrutinizing his peers for tells. The High Regent seemed distracted and impatient. Perhaps worried too. In truth they all seemed to share those emotions, but for, seemingly, the old man, who smiled happily to himself, likely still thinking on the new birth.
As Lord Morteron waited for the arrival of Darien and their guests, he wondered if the old man would still be happy after the meeting had reached his end. If he would be happy realising that his new kin was to grow up in a world where the devil was to run riot. Where death and plague and famine would run riot in the greatest war in human history.
"I give hope to men, I keep none for myself."