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The light doesn't touch the ground here, and yet you can see. Shadows whisper around you; faint, dancing circles spin and twist and smile. You try to leave, but the trees close ranks, cracking branches down to block your path. Slide past if you wish, but the path will only lead you ever-inward. Their court is decorated with bioluminescence; you see the elves peering from branches, the warriors with curved, blood-edged swords. And their Queen, at the center of it all, with a warm smile that promises much worse than the void should you displease her.
Long live the Empress, they shout, marching with golden spears. Long live the Royal Line! She lounges on a palanquin. In the shadows, knives flash-- quick movements that send political rivals toppling, gasping, squirming. They reach, plaintive. The golden armor marches on. Long live the Empress! A man who challenged the throne too many times is dragged away when the crowd erupts in praise; his calls go unheard. Long live the Empress! Her husband, his head wreathed in silver, inclines his chin and smiles. Waves. Their children follow behind, in order of inheritance. Long live the Klauessons! Long live Amnon!
We were betrayed, says a man with a thin face and trembling hands. We were betrayed. The monsters in the Pines Beyond dance closer to the borderline; they flash skeletons and cackle in the dark. We must remain strong. Squadrons with fire flicking from their fingers burn encroaching darkness. Stay strong. Stay steady. Every man, woman, and child. He touches the sigil on his chest; the women and men around him, his fellows, echo the gesture. The crowd copies, too. He knows the monster is his fault, and yet -- what was he meant to do?
Feel the currents. The King of the Abyss watches, his head high, his crown heavy. The water fills your lungs yet it does not burn; you have the boon of the merfolk keeping you alive, here, in these dark reaches, these low pits where no one dares interrupt or intrude. They swing lights towards the surface. They take you by the hands and lead you down, down, down.
How long ago, now, were their ancestors enslaved? How long since the blood settled? Not long enough. Warrior women, holding flails and blades and glaives-- warriors, snarling and smiling and thumping shields. They advance in a phalanx. They advance, singing songs in the language only they understand. Their Matyr leads them in prayer; their Scorax leads them on the warfront. They celebrate with spiced drinks and much ceremony. They cannot stay in one place. They are too conspicuous. So they travel-- travel under the command of their Khanaah, who leads them all.
She appears before you when you are at your lowest, and what she offers is simple: a solution. She smiles, and she tells you that if you give her the word, she will make your problems disappear-- as long as you swear you will pay the price. You swear. You think nothing of it. You swear. Your problems vanish; three weeks later, a man with a coat and a tie and a hat comes to you, a hand outstretched, and he says it's time to pay the price. He leans close and asks you-- gold, or a favor? You pay in gold; the favor is a brutal one involving poison and a stranger and you do not want blood on your hands.
So far north your hands have begun to hurt, you see them. A half-dozen, boisterous, rampaging towards you through the snow. They take you in eagerly; they fill your belly with warm stew and escort you to the capitol. We share, here, says one, scratching behind his ear, flicking his tail. You're Varg, now. If you want to be. Somehow, in the north, they have made this city feel warm and alive-- more inviting than the most decadent spot in the southern reaches.
Only rumor. They can only be rumor. Eighteen assassins. Eighteen watchers of the world. You hear whispers of them when kings die, when war begins for little -- or when someone who should not survive does. They watch, and wait, and work. Their cause is their own. Eighteen, you muse. A woman across the street smiles at you and dips her head.
Decadence. Opulence. Reds and yellows and golds and blues. You are a guest in an ancient hall. You sip your drink and watch the noblefolk circle eachother like sharks on the blood-trail. Groundskeepers, lesser nobles, they watch-- the strike is swift, but the lady of the house begins a duel for the honor of her husband that ends in less than a heartbeat; she cleans her nails and chuckles, murmuring about how weak the challengers are these days. The walls warp when you look away.
Figures around a fire, bodies striped in paint. Tytos Zhad, Khurgazhad! A man, teeth showing through his tight-lipped smile, stands before a flame that swirls, green-red-blue-black-all-impossible. Rule us better than we've had! Drums swell. The smell of blood. Of plague. The drums beat faster. The dance spins madder. A crown of bones atop his brow. Tytos Zhad, Khurgazhad! He spreads his arms, meets your gaze through the flames, and calls to a world you cannot understand.
The princess doesn't know what to make of her position. Her council murmurs softly; courtiers watch. Predators lurk in the well-walked streets; there's a genial menace to some of the royalty here. Still, no clan, no kingdom, dares war against them -- except one that is too small to be much of a threat at all. Trade (and trade not soaked in blood, mind) rolls from Levine; their coin is good, their goods are better.
