Ardaik 8th - La'Trest, Lorellia

The bright, mid-day sun made visible far more than the remaining sailors wished they could see. Some of them were so very close to home, mere blocks away, but after the dragon had eaten one man in front of the rest, they retained very little hope that they wouldn't soon meet the same fate.

"Please," the warrant officer whimpered. "Either let us leave or grant us a swifter death. I beg of you."

Obtoxicullous plopped down into one of the fine armchairs that he'd had his undead minions drag out of one of the nearby estates. There he sat, on the charred remains of the stage where musicians had entertained the night of the festival, with the black dragon perched at the side of it.

"But of course. I, too, wish for you all to scurry back along to your insignificant lives. Truly, I do. But you see, I have these few nagging questions that cause me great anguish," the necromancer explained. "See them resolved adequately, and you'll be freed to plot your revenge in peace! However, fail to answer quickly or satisfactorily and, well..." His gaze slid up towards Auganull, who held the same presence as that of a bored feline, with half-lidded eyes and the end of his tail slowly flicking out its annoyance.

"Alright, you there, on the end. You look a smart fellow; tell me where your ship hailed from and why it was coming to port in La'Trest?"

"We're a Lorellian ship! The Royal Navy!" the sailor at the end of their quivering line snapped as if that should've been obvious enough from any number of things. "La'Trest is our home berth."

A few gazes darted side to side from the men, sweat trickling down the sides of their temples and collecting on their upper lips in tiny beads. But the necromancer's eyes had lost interest all too quickly; his head lulled to the side, resting on his knuckles as he listened.

"How...uninteresting..." He motioned to the dragon, and the man was snapped up, crunched, and swallowed. "I do hope the rest of you can do better than that."

"S-stop! N-no more!" the warrant officer pleaded as another man promptly fainted, meeting the ground with a dull, damp thud.

"The...the-the-the-the PRINCE!" the gangliest sailor blurted. "The prince! We had the prince! Well—w-we didn't. We were eh-s-s-scorting him! We were escorting him back h-here!" As he finished, the warrant officer greyed, his eyes taking on a new shade of regret and hopelessness.

At the mention of the prince, Obi's head lifted, and his body soon followed. "Now, that is fascinating." The necromancer moved to lay a hand on the sailor's narrow shoulder.

The moment he did, Auganull started in on devouring the rest of the men while Obi took his time cutting his new toy free. "Come, friend, and never mind the undead. They never bite without my order," he said softly as he draped an arm around the sailor's shoulder and led him down the street through the crowd of ghouls and shamblers. "It is so troublesome to find worthy company. As you can imagine, most of my retainers aren't much in the way of conversation."

The sailor's eyes couldn't possibly get any wider, and he trembled visibly as he went where the necromancer directed him. A weak "O-Oh," was all he could manage.

Their short walk brought them to one of the manors on the edge of the town square, which Obi had claimed for himself. Aside from the servants being replaced with soulless undead, it was still quite nice, at least on the lower level. Rays of sunlight streamed in from somewhere on the upper level where part of the roof had collapsed or been torn away—it was hard to tell which from where they stood. Once they'd moved on to the dining room, however, it was impossible to tell the damage to the rest of the grand home.

"Please, sit," Obi instructed as he removed his arm and came to rest beside the table; he did not seat himself. Instead, he seemed content to linger, no doubt at the ready should his new friend attempt to escape him.

"Comfortable?"

The sailor replied with a single, hesitant nod.

"So, tell me where the prince's ship would go next, and I'll give you...well, I'll give you whatever you want."

"Uh-well. Uhm." The man swallowed thickly. "There was—uhm—much talk of sailing to uh–Causter. As an alternative to the uhm—the capital. But I uhm...I don't think that's where they'll go."

"And why not?" Obi asked as a servant door opened at the far end of the dining room, through which passed a single undead. It was missing one arm, and the other held an unstable tray with two silver goblets and a pitcher that teetered dangerously with each step but never quite managed to tip over completely—to the credit of the unwitting servant.

"Causter is closer than Malton. I doubt they have the supplies to reach any port farther than that," the necromancer thought aloud as he took the tray and set it down on the table in front of his guest.

"Y-yes, well—you see, many of the other men were, uhm—well, they were talking about the prince's company," the sailor explained as he eyed the tray and the ghastly thing that had delivered it. "A boy from Boreven. And some foreigners—uhm, Serellians, I-uh...I believe. I've not seen many, but I-uh—I do believe they were Serellian."

"Oh, I see," Obi mused as he filled the cups, taking one for himself as he spoke. "How thoughtful of the prince...foolish, but thoughtful.''

He seemed about to say something more when a loud crash drew his attention and caused the sailor to nearly jump out of his sweat-dampened skin. The clatter of footfalls followed and grew until the door to the dining room was thrown open, smacking into the wall behind it, presumably in the same manner as the front doors had.

There, in the threshold, stood a man—wild, dark hair and clothing constructed of thick, matted fur.

The sailor gripped the table's edge so hard to steady his fear-racked form that the knuckles on every one of his fingers were completely sapped of color. However, Obi didn't seem at all concerned with the wild man's arrival. In fact, he seemed pleased.

"Ah! My package has arrived! And all in one piece, I presume?"

"All in one piece, Elf."

"Marvelous!" Obi exclaimed as he clapped his thin hands together. "I can't wait to see the queen's face! Well, I'm afraid I have business to attend to. Marec, here, will be at your service, Mr...?" the necromancer trailed off in the way one does when waiting for a name.

"P-Pol," the sailor managed between clenched teeth. "Elijah P-Pol. And uhm—you said you'd—"

"Mr. Pol, we'll discuss your payment later, over dinner," Obi dismissed as he disappeared through the door, leaving Elijah alone with Marec, who had already claimed the abandoned goblet of wine.

***

Ardaik 8th - La'Trest, Lorellia

"Your Majesty?"

The maid's soft tone startled Lady Vivienne out of her thoughts, which were, as of late, perhaps the deepest and darkest they'd ever been. She wasn't sure how much of the morning she'd already spent seated in front of the fireplace nearest their bed—where her husband lay, looking as though he were merely a ghost of whom he was but days ago. "Is tea ready?" she asked absently.

"It's afternoon, my lady," the maid replied, her voice thick with sorrow.

Vivienne glanced at the small, round table to the right of the armchair. Lunch was, indeed, sitting there untouched; it had attracted the attention of a few fruit flies.

"Your majesty...the necromancer is here."

Vivienne gave the bed a leery glance before standing and following the maid out of their chambers and down the upper north hall. She descended the staircase, surrounded by a tight formation of guards, suffocatingly close; yet, the moment she could see the mage awaiting her, not a single one of them felt close enough.

"My husband is suffering because of you," she said sharply, her voice echoing within the otherwise silent space once the guards had come to a halt. "And I shall only suffer your company briefly. Why have you come here?"

"Then brief I shall I keep my words, for it is your husband's own hand that brings my wrath down upon him and you, indirectly. He would sooner see the entire kingdom and all those who dwell within it off to an early grave than to simply humble himself." Obi paused a moment as he realized, to some degree, that his tone had grown a bit callous and then continued in a more sympathetic manner. "You suffer through no fault of your own. That is how the wretched world works. You can have no hand in a thing and still be punished for it."

The queen sighed as she listened to him blither, lacing her fingers impatiently in front of the bodice of her dark auburn gown.

"So, I offer you no pity, for I have none left to give. Instead, I'm here to deliver my condolences and..." Obi turned and motioned towards the opened doors leading into the front courtyard. "A gift."

Vivienne's breath caught in her throat as scuffling could be heard approaching the landing at the main entrance.

"One son taken," the necromancer continued as a young man was escorted into the main hall, a guardsman clamped around each arm, "and one son returned."

To the dismay of her personal guard, the queen pushed passed them, desperate for a better look at the young man. But as quickly as her hopes had inflated, they were dashed.

The elf was not only a murderer—he was a liar as well.

This boy's hair was a mess of rich, dark waves that fell just passed his shoulders—far too long to be her son's—and his face was adorned with scars and smudged with dirt. But to her horror and confusion, his resemblance to Artus was uncanny—undeniable, even—right down to Cristaldo's distinctly rare, golden-hued eyes.

"Well...I'll leave you two alone," Obi said as he slowly circled around to the queen's side. "I'm sure you have much to discuss."

Her guards tensed and twitched as though they were making every conceivable effort to intercept him, but their attempts were useless. It was as if they were being held firmly in place by hands unseen to any of them.

Traces of a smile slid across the necromancer's face, and he leaned close to her ear. "Perhaps you can start with how you decided which one of your sons was more worth saving than the other..."

Once he'd reemerged onto the terrace, Obi took a deep breath as a satisfied little grin pulled at his lips. From the steps of the castle, he was just high enough to see the tops of the buildings in the city beyond the ramparts, a bit of the outer city walls, and just beyond that, the foothills of the rolling mountains to the west and the bay to the south and east.

He had no doubt that La'Trest Palace had been constructed with this very view in mind. A view that the king would only have the privilege to enjoy for two more days.

With a twirl of his staff, Obi started down the steps to the bridge that connected the palace to the city. There, Auganull lay along the length of the path so that no one could pass him on foot without him taking notice, but it also appeared that the dragon had fallen fast asleep at his appointed post.

"Enjoying yourself, old friend?" Obi asked as he tapped on one of the massive goat-like horns with his staff; the bite of sarcasm lessened by his own good mood.

Augunall's yellow eyes opened—first the outer lids, and then the translucent inner ones—before the inky black rounds of his pupils narrowed and focused on the necromancer.

"You're in a good mood," Auganull replied.

"And why shouldn't I be?"

"Because the humans want their king and city back. I've seen the armies massing to the south and to the north... They'll attack any day now. Or was your plan? To have me level their armies by myself?"

"The south is no longer of concern to me. We'll be gone before morning. I'll send the weaver and her kin ahead to secure us some accommodations."