Ophiuchus Side-Stories:
A.C. 163

.:IV:.

Schloss Charlottenburg was not unlike other bastions of power from the Great Europa Government era, ancient and opulent, built and adorned in materials that would today be considered impractical, and polished, restored and maintained to its most pristine state in the most pain-staking ways. There were, however, surprising little deviations in its traditions.

Motion-sensing lights, for example, and full-panelled digital screens discreetly recessed into strategic window frames, cycling between fantastical displays of Slavic art and to-the-minute news updates. A tall open gallery leading into the business parts of the palace featured photo portraits of every minister and official of the empire for two regimes, the newer below the older, and a small discreet plaque on the bottom of each frame indicating name, position, and where applicable, their fate. Byron Peacecraft counted thirty-seven im Exil and twenty-six Märtyrer für Friedrich XI at a glance and noted in good cheer to Lucius Darlian, his friend and confidante, the lack of Assistant Librarians.

Lucius was less than charmed. The bare echoing floors made him feel strangely exposed, and every portrait was another pair of haunting and haunted eyes silently accusing him of the luck of serving a different master. For all his reckless caprice, Byron Peacecraft the Third has yet to actually murder anyone. Nor was he alone in his discomfort, the Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs kept his eyes firmly fixed on the tips of his shoes and Chief Minister Branos had practically turned green. Even their escort, the two Sanqere bodyguards the ministers finally managed to bundle into the car with Byron and the four Imperium Marsch guardsmen with the puff-chested palace steward, seemed somewhat cowed marching beneath them.

"Where are the pictures of my wife-to-be?" Byron boomed in a hearty tourist voice.

It took a moment for Lucius to realise he was being spoken to, but before he could think to make the inquiry, he was spared the humiliation of exercising his poor German by a gruffer, older voice that replied with hardly any accent at all. "The Kaiser is not fond of pictures."

"Oh? Could have fooled me," the young king replied, pausing casually before the image of an Ottis Brutwurst, former Captain of the Imperial March, currently 'in exile'.

A gaunt man in his thirties, hitherto unnoticed, had somehow replaced their previous guides. The delegation bodyguards fumbled for their weapons in bewilderment. The Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs even let slip a rather embarrassing squeak. Of their party, only Byron was unfazed. The man stood before him in military immaculacy, his natural colours fading against the vivid rust-blood red of his uniform, and offered him no royal courtesies.

"Indeed, Herr Peacecraft." he said.

Lord Branos blustered and glowed purple where his compatriots blenched. Of all the indignities he has suffered at the hands of Byron and the Deutsche today, this was by far the worst to his mind. A man's standing is tied irrevocably to that of his master's. How dare this simple redcap reduce his sovereign king to an ignoble "mister"? The Chief Minister snarled, as much from the slight as the uncomfortable chill the stoic servant sent down his spine.

"We are most honoured guests in this House and you will properly address us as lords of a recognised Kingdom!"

Byron merely raised a bemused eyebrow.

"However barbaric and beggarly?" he let slip a sideways smile. "I am touched, Branos, especially considering what your ilk think of me."

The Chief Minister palled. "Well, that is… your majesty, I… I mean… this… I …"

"Let it lie, Branos," Byron clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, his laugh grating, though not unkind, "it's not worth saving.

"I apologise," he turned fluidly towards their patient observer with a generous grin, "it seems it is past my courtiers' feeding time, so pray lead on, Blutigesgarde, I'm sure we'll all appreciate some fine beds, wine and food."

This did not warm the empress' ninja up as Byron had hoped, although he did loiter just a moment longer than he absolutely had to before shutting the Sanqere in their guest suite.

"Blutigesgarde is a vicious slur," he said quietly to Byron at the threshold of the turquoise themed sitting room. "It would be kind of you not to repeat it."

"I see," the King of Sanq Kingdom replied. "What does your Empress call you?"

"By our names, Herr Peacecraft." Weridge tipped his head in the slightest of bows as he pulled the suite doors close. "Good night."

…

Glossary:
im Exil - German. In Exile, an age-old way of saying they got "disposed of".
Märtyrer für Friedrich XI - German. Martyred for Friedrich XI, a politesse way of saying executed by F-XI. These shall be worked into the later text.