Like rows of felled wheat, the prone form of a hundred humans lines the limestone path. The sky above them is the bright blue of summer lighting their basic brown cloth to a dusty shade of tan. Their deep brown hair falls over their light faces of various browns and creams like protective veils.
The Empress Morkenin, her ebony skin swathed in a cape of shimmering silver draped over a practical set of midnight blue tunic and trousers, strides along on her knee length polished boots amidst a company of equally dark, gleaming royal guard, and a dozen sims serene of face, concealing their deadly nature. She surveys her dominion with a cold, calculating eye. The sound of light footsteps reaches her from behind, and she pauses.
"Empress," and a small, almost albino white body, bows low, revealing the brand which marks him as a splice.
"What is your news?" the Empress asks pulling back the cowl of her cape. A scattering of diamonds glitter in the sunlight as she angles her head ever so slightly in the splice's direction.
"The Abrasax have agreed to your meeting." The Empress nods slightly.
"Of course they have."
"There is much discord among that family," he continues at her bidding. "Kalique is not favored as the next Prime. No one takes Titus as a serious contender."
"Your spies have been put to good use."
"At your command," he agrees, rising from his stance of obeisance, "I will make further preparations." She says nothing, expecting everything. Chicanery Night turns to walk back from where he came.
"Mr. Night, you did not mention the attack." Mr. Night tenses and his feet stop their measured, yet hasty, retreat. "I expect all news of That one."
"I," he stutters slightly at the reproach, "thought that was your doing." The Empress barely raises one brow and glances down at the little double dealer. Turning a dismissive shoulder, she continues in a more thoughtful tone.
"Not I," she murmurs. "Then who?"