A/N: Yeah, so I just know you guys were all dying for an update... actually, I was just feeling really guilty about not doing any work on this.
Anywho, wrote this in all of three hours this afternoon and now I'm just gonna post because I haven't updated in ... a month? at least.
Oh my. Did I promise action? because there isn't any. like, at all. in fact, I'm rather dissapointed in this chapter; there's not enough action for my taste, just a whole lot of setup leading to next chapter - which, if anything goes according to plan, will be lots and lots and lots of burning and killing and screaming and whatnot.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.
Kyrie hid a small grin as she waved for the empty glasses to be filled.
What had started as a group celebration in the local tavern had finally dwindled down to three; Rorek, Kyrie, and Malchior the newly made lord. In the background the constant rise and fall of conversations permeated the air.
Despite the good cheer, the brown haired young man frowned. He swirled the contents of his cup for a moment before the golden liquid lifted up into a sphere and began to slowly spin.
White-haired Rorek leaned forwards and grinned, "You're about to join the peerage, smile!"
"Oh leave him alone, you're a noble - born to beurocratic nons -" Kyrie was cut off by a firm shove.
Ignoring the friendly violence, Malchior continued to stare at his ball of beer. At last he took a deep breath,"But there's so much to do! I have to name the place, establish heraldry, clean the castle, meet the locals, learn the area, find a capable regent, maybe get married, build up my own house, and did I mention establishing heraldry?"
Rorek and Kyrie stared for a beat, then burst out laughing. Their friend glared and shoved his fingers into a mop of brown hair.
"Well, first things first. What are you going to call the place? There may be a local name, or some archive in the libraries..." Rorek trailed off at Malchior's shaking head.
"There are a few scattered villages, really nothing more than huts – no names. The fortress is supposedly empty, and according to the clerk who stuck me with the place, no record of it."
"That's ridiculous!" the noble shouted. "Mysterious castles in the middle of nowhere aren't just spontaneously found – that's like some sort of fairytale."
Shrugging, Malchior refocused on the swirling orb hovering above his cup. "What if I called it Bursea?"
At last Kyrie joined the conversation. "Bursea as in razed-to-the-ground-without-a-trace Bursea?"
Malchior nodded, "Volume sixteen of seventeen extant."
Rorek sneered, "You must be joking. You can't possibly want to name your holding after a corrupt nation of power hungry maniacs."
Smiling at last, the brown haired mage downed his cup. "I do. Now, for colors!"
As if on que the entire building was silenced. Four armor clad soldiers, dripping from the rain, stood at attention on either side of the door. Grey-white surcoats had been drenched almost transparent against a combination of plate and chain mail.
The beer ball splashed down into it's cup with a deafening sploosh.
A final man at arms stepped across the threshold and made a casual gesture, commanding the quiet onlookers to talk their loudest and pay no attention to the armed strangers.
Predictably, the tavern remained quiet until the massive soldier glared. During the rustle of prepared knives and the din of civilians attempting to converse as obnoxiously as possible, the soldiers dispersed into the crowd.
Rorek tensed and straightened slightly. Sensing the change in their friend's mood, his two companions did the same.
The man who'd dominated the entire room only moments before strode up to the small group. "Rorek of Nole?"
"I am he," the white-haired noble replied tersely. "Am I to assume you are messengers of my father?"
Nodding, the soldier produced a roll of parchment with a glowing seal of white wax. "The Lord Nole commands that you raise your cousin and school him in the ways of magics," he declared. With a curt gesture he summoned another soldier, accompanied by a white haired boy who looked to be four, to him. "Above all, you will keep Artor safe."
Words said, the man and his four companions trooped out of the tavern, leaving the child behind.
Malchior, Rorek, and Kyrie stared down at the boy, and Artor stared back.
It was Malchior who spoke first. "So kid, what's your favorite color?"
Cocking his head to the side, Artor replied, "Purple!"
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THUD!
Three bodies slammed into the pale marble floor of the palace, accompanied by a sick sounding wet slap.
Stunned, the court didn't move. The only sound came from the still burning clothes of the three figures. One of them shifted slightly. "hel..."
Long seconds ticked by before Slade shoved several onlookers aside. Stalking over to the bodies, he bent down. "Get the healers," the Supreme Commander didn't have to turn to know that not a soul had obeyed him. "NOW!" he roared.
The immediate action that suddenly filled the hall was dwarfed only by the rising tide of panic among the gaudily clad nobles.
The body that had tried to cry earlier coughed weakly.
In an almost gentle voice, Slade spoke softly to the only conscious arrival. "Garth, what did this?"
Garth of Atlantis screwed up his eyes in pain. Patches of blackened skin flaked off in clumps. "Drag... on..."
Beneath the shadow-spell on his face, the unflappable Supreme Commander grimaced.
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The blinding white of the sheets, the walls, the bed, the door, the everything of the room was brilliantly spotless. Three figures were silhouetted in the streaming sunlight.
Rorek tenderly ran his fingers through Kyrie's dark hair, leaving his other hand to rest on her bandaged one.
Across the aisle Garth lay quietly. Since his single word report to his Commander, the Atlantian hadn't stirred. Beside his bed lay an enshrouded figure – indistinguishable because the stainless sheet had been pulled across it completely.
The white-haired man caressed Kyrie's cheek. "Don't worry dearest, I'll hunt down the beast that did this – and when I find it the very fires of hell shall tremble." Rorek continued to whisper oaths of vengeance as the sunlight marched across the floor of the room. Seeming to awake from a dream, he stood and brushed a few strands of hair out of her face.
"Slade's calling us all together now. But just watch, out of the hundreds that will be sent, I alone will slay the dragon." Rorek paused at Kyrie's side one last time before leaving.
Kyrie's eyelids fluttered slightly, accompanied by a muffled groan.
"No, no, save your strength. Artor's been asking of you, he doesn't know yet," Rorek's hand hovered near Kyrie's cheek again. "He's going to need you."
Letting the last word hang in the air, Rorek left the stirring Kyrie and the still sleeping Garth.
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Slade stood at the top of the cascade of steps leading up to the Palace of Metrion. Assembled before him were eleven archmages decked in the heraldry of their orders. Behind them the greatest mages each discipline had to offer milled about in the ordered chaos that accompanied magic wherever it went. The sea of color was overwhelming, as was the vast number of mage-kind.
The Supreme Commander himself coldly gazed down at the mob. The man didn't even twitch as Rorek walked past him to stand with the other archmages. Instead, Slade launched into a well rehearsed speech.
"Seventeen mages – seventeen of us are dead. Mage-born all, they rest eternally in peace – but we do not. In the space of a day, Azarath has fallen! The house of Azar is dust and ashes, burnt from the face of the world."
Slade's aura of emotionless detachment could almost be heard shattering as he lashed out at the air in rage.
"The scholars, sages, and citizens of Azarath are burned alive – cursed to relive their final moments again and again 'till we the living have avenged their murders."
Taking the pause in the Commander's words as invitation, Rorek stepped forward. "Let me lead our vengeance!" he begged.
Lowering his voice so that only the few closest to him could hear, Slade replied coldly, "No. Inexperience, arrogance, and stupidity that got your friends killed will not serve us today." Raising his voice back to a pitch to drown out the din of a battlefield, he continued, "I will lead, personally, and Azarath will be avenged!"
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In the infirmary, Kyrie at last wrenched her eyes open.
"Malchior..."
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