"Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer; nothing is more difficult than to understand him. - Fyodor Dostoevski"
Character(s): Gangrel
Rating: T
Length: 1000 words
"T-The Ylisseans are approaching the castle, your majesty." A young man stammered; his red plegian uniform hanging off of his thin frame. Gangrel, the 'Mad King' of Plegia looked down at the man- no, boy- with a bored gaze as he placed aside his freshly sharpened blade.
"Yes, I'd imagine they are." The King drawled dryly "Very well, go now." The boy wasted no time in leaving, his nerves causing his body to quake. Not surprising, considering Aversa had a nasty habit of killing the men. 'Blasted woman.' Gangrel cursed in his mind 'If she weren't such a high ranking member of the Grimleal she'd be struck from my court.' Despite his moniker of 'Mad King' he did not approve of senselessly killing his own men- leave that to the Ylissean dogs. The red head sneered as he thought of the country that had caused his own no end of trouble.
He remembered the war- every Plegian did. Even those too young to remember the war itself saw the effects it had on the country. Gangrel grit his teeth at the thought of children not knowing anything different than poverty or despair. Gangrel deeply loved his country; and no matter what he could not forgive Ylisse for what they did to him- to all of his people. Yet, despite his devotion to their wellbeing, despite everything he has done for them, they were having doubts over the war- and over his leadership.
"Ungrateful cretins!" he hissed, slamming a fist down on the arm of his throne. "Do they not see that this war is for them? To get justice for the wrongs that were committed to them?" The bastard Exalt, the father of the late Emmeryn and the whelp Chrom, ravished Plegia on a so called 'Holy Campaign'. Innocent Plegians slaughtered for no reason other than one man's arrogance over their 'Exalted' bloodline. When the bastard finally died, the suffering of the Plegian people did not stop, it slowed down sure, but Plegians still suffered. Butchered families, raised towns- these were only a few of the troubles left in Ylisse's blood soaked path.
Gangrel remembered the war- he had been a young man at the time. Living in the slums, he saw the very worst of human nature. Ylissean soldiers tearing through the streets searching for the 'heretic Plegians', people resorting to cannibalism just to get sustenance, men betraying one another for gold or the promise of mercy- only to receive a blade in the back for their trouble. Gangrel had been smart, waiting until Ylissean soldiers were alone, before ambushing them- or pilfering from the pockets of the dead or injured. Through the skills he had acquired through being a thief he survived the war, and during the disarray and confusion of the aftermath, a humble peasant became the King of a nation.
It was during the war when he realised something- he liked killing. Or, to be more accurate, he loved killing Ylisseans. The satisfaction he gained from his blade tearing through the soft flesh under the armpit, or through the blaringly obvious weak points in the female soldiers armour, was greater than anything he could derive from the whores who made good business in those times of horror. So, when he saw his chance to climb through the ranks, the chance to be a King, naturally he saw the possibility of revenge. The chance to deal upon Ylisse what they dealt to Plegia was too great a temptation to ignore; and so for years he planned. He conscripted men and women into the army, invested the gold that Ylisse had given them in a pathetic attempt to 'apologise', into getting his troops the best weaponry and training money could buy.
From his spies in Ylisse, he heard about the new Exalt- Emmeryn; about how she was supposedly kind and peaceful. "Bah- a peaceful Ylissean? You're more likely to find a sane Grimleal." Gangrel muttered sardonically. It was impossible for her to be as kind and trusting as she made herself out to be- no ruler could afford to do so. Never the less; he knew that from the appearance she put on that it would be all too easy to draw her into a parlay- and her infamously hot headed brother was all too easy to manipulate into dealing the first blow. Despite the cursed Falchion once again drinking more Plegian blood, Gangrel knew that any Plegian would gladly give their life to get revenge on Ylisse.
At least, he once thought that. He truly believed that all of Plegia wished for revenge- but a few words from that bitch and they all have doubts. "I should have killed her sooner- damned Ylissean whore. As if her father killing Plegians wasn't enough, now she's turned them into traitors to their country; to their King! Do they not remember what they did to us all?" he roared, causing the guards outside the door to grow nervous.
"They are coming? Let them come." Gangrel stood from his throne, grabbing his Levin Sword that rested next to it. Attaching it to his hip, he strode towards the large doors of his throne room. "Let them come and taste my blade- let them feel my lightning! Because the pain that I will deal to them is nothing compared to the pain they have dealt to Plegia!" he shoved the doors open with a mighty heave, startling the royal guards, the heavy wooden structures nearly hitting them as they swung. 'Together, with true Plegians by my side, I will end their precious Exalted bloodline once and for all!' He strode down the halls of his palace, his men falling into line before him. As he approached the mighty front doors, the servants pushed them open, and the harsh Plegian sun filled his vision, yet he did not falter. Ignoring the sun's rays, he exited Plegia Castle and stepped into the courtyard.
"Good day, my little princeling! Still dreaming of your squashed sister?"