*Ikana Castle [Orchestrated] (The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask OST)

**Ganondorf on Forsaken Fortress (The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker OST)

Tapping his fingers against his throne's armrest nervously, the young king glared intensely at the envoy. "Well?" he demanded impatiently.

Turning his gaze away, the messenger could not bear to face the sovereign. "I...apologize, milord." he began gingerly. "But nothing."

Slamming his fist against the throne, the king growled in exasperation. "Damn it all!" he swore. "We've tried following the advice of the farmers, scholars, and mystics all! Nothing!"

The messenger bowed apologetically. "M-milord, if it would please you, feel free to s-spill my blood. If it would end this drought, I'd gladly-"

*The ruler waved his hand dismissively. "No, that would be utterly barbaric." he insisted. "And completely ineffective- more befitting of those fanatics across the mountains."

Rising from his throne, the king began to pace the width of the chamber anxiously. If it were a challenge that could be identified and met- whether a plague, a marauding enemy, or anything else, that would be a surmountable challenge. All of these at once, on the other hand? Well, perhaps "marauding" was not quite the right term for this enemy.

"Speaking of which, have you heard tell of the zealots?" asked the monarch, his fierce, green eyes giving little indication of his concern.

"I can't say I have, sire. Which is unsettling- my father would tell tales of his fierce battles with the tribes back in his day. These days, we hear or see nothing from them. I don't like it. I don't like it in the slightest."

"Damn."

Massaging his temples, the king sighed tiredly. "That will be all, my good man. I've business to attend to myself."

Retiring to the atrium atop the castle, the king engaged in what had become a morning ritual for him, bowing before the marble effigies of the gods and ancestors alike before mouthing a prayer for their aid- ironically enough, in his youth, he had absolutely no use for religion in the slightest, privately sneering at his father and grandfather alike for their fastidious adherence to said rites. But as the crown weighed heavier upon his head and the kingdom's distress continued to mount, he'd become acutely aware of just how powerless even the most powerful man in the world could be in the face of such forces.

With that said, there was also business to attend to with his three most important generals- one for each of the cardinal directions; making his way to his secondary study- his strategy room, the king was met by the three officers standing at attention, the monarch raising his hand in as if to dismiss them. "That will do, gentlemen." he began, taking the seat at the head of the table. "Let us start with you, Tudhaliya; what of the western frontier?"

The general, a rather short, stocky fellow, nodded dutifully. "My liege, precisely as you've commanded, I've deployed my finest unit and finest commander to oversee the garrison. Some of the men are a bit...restless and wondering why we've devoted such a commitment to these lands, but it is unimportant."

"Is that so...?" the king inquired, less-than-amused. "Labarna, what of the south?"

The general grimaced. "Apart from the drought, sire?" he asked, genuinely unsure of his king's intention in asking. "The beasts are more aggressive as of late, but nothing to report apart from that."

The other two men did not envy their fellow general- having responsibility for the northern highlands. "And the north, Hattusili?" asked the king finally, fingers tapping against the table in irritation.

The remaining general, a thin, gaunt man, swallowed nervously. "We've not seen any significant activity from the tribes for years, milord." the general reported, just as nervously. "They are up to something, sire- I'd stake my life on it."

The monarch cursed to himself. In his father's reign, they'd seen a significant incursion of the fanatics- he'd been little more than a boy when he'd taken part in the campaign to repel them. Since that time, they'd been fairly quiet, engaging in skirmishes with the border guards from time to time. But then again, there was a reason why his fathers had declared anyone practicing their dark rites inside the kingdom's lands subject to outlawry.

"If it should please you, my king," resumed Labarna. "I could dispatch envoys to request aid from abroad. The mask-worshipers are odd, true, but they're not fanatics. They can be reasoned with."

The monarch gave a derisive huff. "They'll have their own problems." he reminded. "And need I remind you that our kingdom is not just the greatest in the world, but the ONLY kingdom left in the world. The southerners are a city-state by this point and the swamp-dwellers supposedly have a king, but the last time anyone heard from them was in my grandfather's time."

Leaving his seat at the head of the table, the king paced about the room irritably, halting before the north-facing window, scowling at that damnable tower jutting out into the sky from the highlands. No one had any real recollection of when the cursed thing had actually been constructed- only that it had been present for the past millennium at the very least, and most likely for far longer. And also from time immemorial, it held the well-deserved reputation for playing host to the most wicked and sinister of rites- to what end exactly, only the fanatics worshiping there knew; but within his own kingdom, attempting to practice said rites was and had been for ages, a capital crime for good reason.

"What an eyesore that cursed tower is!" exclaimed the king. "It's cast a vile shadow over this land for far too long!"

Labarna, the youngest of the generals, spoke first. "Milord, why not simply destroy it?"

The king snorted, half in amusement and half in contempt. "If I had an army ready for every time my fathers tried to bring that thing down...we'd have toppled it ages ago! You know what I mean! It's size notwithstanding, the zealots have some sorcery that makes it immune to conventional methods of destruction. And even then, we all know they would fight to the last man, woman, and child to protect it."

Hattusili spoke up next. "With all due respect, my liege," he prefaced fearfully. "that description makes it sound more like a temple. Perhaps it's not what's on the outside, but what's inside of it?"

The general shuddered. "It kind of makes me wish the Hero of Eons would return and destroy whatever it is."

Labarna scoffed in derision. "Please! You can't tell me you believe that old wives tale! No man could possibly live that long! That alone makes it nonsense!"

For all his underlings' squabbles, the king could not help but find himself wishing for that hero of old to return and topple the tower- or even better, destroy whatever it was that made the fanatics dwelling around it so...fanatical.

Alright, he would admit to being a coward- Lord Hanno of Atria was not a man who believed in deceiving himself and a great many things did frighten him. However, this pilgrimage of sorts- to pay their respects to the new lord of these lands- was rather...unsettling for a number of reasons. It was not simply the unnaturally-blank expressions worn by the sentries or fact that they'd entered the considerable camp in the midst of the sacrificing of a considerable number of captives. No, even the air itself surrounding this man seemed heavier- more difficult to breathe.

"Mezentius, my f-friend." he stammered, wincing at the pained, final shrieks of another sacrifice, almost certainly their (theoretical) countrymen. "M-must we truly do this? I mean, s-surely some lowborn envoys would suffice?!"

Lord Mezentius of Vizpul, a man of around thirty-five, turned his cruel, angular face towards his counterpart, huffing dismissively. "Stupid AND cowardly is no way to go through life, Hanno." he scoffed. "We are simply making a good impression- nothing more, nothing less."

"But still? Your father's blade? His most prized possession? The same one he claims to have been granted by the gods?"

"Yes, it is magnificent- a fitting welcoming gift for this world's new ruler, no?"

"I suppose, but-"

"But nothing!"

In the bundle Mezentius carried close to his chest was a brilliant, obsidian-tinged longsword, the hilt inlaid with a jewel black as the night itself. The encampment itself was actually little more than an encampment of large felt tents, select areas fenced off for livestock. Naturally, the largest, grandest tent sat at the center, surrounded by black-armored warriors wielding an assortment of weapons, such as the two who crossed their spears to block the lords' passage. "Name." grunted the man on the left.

"Mezentius, Lord of Vizpul." the noble recited, producing some strange emblem attached to the cord around his neck. "And my companion, Hanno of Atria."

As though somehow entranced to do so synchronized, the guards removed their weapons to their original position. "Enter." growled the man on the right.

When they first crossed into the tent, the first thing that struck Hanno was the sickly odor of a particular type of incense, the billowing smoke being only enough to actually impede his visibility slightly. Upon closer inspection, the cowardly lord could make out an assortment of tomes and assorted ingredients used for gods-only-knew-what. But it did seem that the rumors concerning this man's vast sorcerous powers were true.

Shuffling forward a bit, Mezentius cleared his throat slightly. "Great Lord of the West!" he began, his best theatrically-dramatic voice at work. "I, Mezentius of Vizpul, have traveled far to pledge fealty to the king of shadows! Please, accept this blade- the finest in these lands- as a token of my loyalty!"

**Once the master of this camp came into focus, Hanno's first instinct was to run for his life. Granted, he was a coward, but he knew for a fact that braver men than he would have the same reaction; standing at least four heads above even the tallest man he'd ever encountered, this king of thieves, clad in long black robes, possessed a fiery mane of red hair and wicked, yellow eyes full of ambition. At this display before him, the demon grinned sinisterly, his teeth contrasting unnaturally against his ashen skin. "It's about time you showed up." he remarked lazily, taking the bundle into his hands. "It saved me the trouble of hunting you down."

Unwrapping the weapon, the warlord, while mildly impressed at the shimmering, blackish-purple glow and power radiating from it, ultimately did not seem as taken with it as the elder lord of Vizpul. "Interesting..." he remarked less-than-truthfully. "What is the story behind this weapon?"

"Of course, milord! It was granted to my father by the gods themselves! I was never much a swordsman, nor a collector; I thought this would be an appropriate gift for this world's new ruler."

The giant gave a hearty, wicked laugh. "Oh, I like you, Mezentius! But what ails your companion?"

"Cowardice." Mezentius answered bluntly. "Among other vices."

The demon warlord trained a gaze of murderous contempt on Hanno. "Are you a man or a mouse?" he inquired harshly. "I swear, the likes of you would hide under the skirts of some uppity wench if they thought it'd save their worthless lives."

While not exactly warm, the warlord turned his somewhat-less-harsh expression back to Mezentius. "Now, I still believe we've business to which to attend. So tell me- does this blade have a name?"

"N-not that I know of, milord." answered Mezentius, now thinking it rather odd that a blade of such storied origins did not. "Why do you ask?"

"I've become rather well-acquainted with the parlance of these lands and I've come up with a wonderful name for this weapon."

The demon warlord smiled evilly, his white teeth seeming even more of an unnatural contrast."I will call this blade 'Victorious Peace'- a weapon befitting of my new world."**