Empire 6: In the Court of the Horned King

[TheDarkDM]

Guided by the paladins sent to observe their struggles, the chosen representatives of Mamut journey West to the lands of the Horned King. For many, it is their first time beyond the white totems marking the borders of his realm, and though leering packs of King's Hounds are a common sight in the distance, the paladins are proof against even their desperate hunger. At night, the delegations are welcomed with blind reverence by the fortress-villages in the outlands, presented with meals clearly beyond what those meager settlements could easily afford. The shadows in those places are crowded with eyes, gleaming with curiosity and fear in equal measure, and their leaders grovel pathetically at the paladins' feet when the morning comes and the delegations depart. The armored elves take all in stride - clearly they are accustomed to this deference.

Passage into the heartland of the Crimson Kingdom after the journey through the outlands is as shocking as stepping from a lightless cave into the full light of day. With scarcely any warning, untamed wilds transition to carefully manicured forests and fields, the muddy paths the representatives had traversed suddenly wide highways paved with grey stone. Here and there, small groups of brightly-clothed people can be seen in the distance, some clearly in pursuit of game or riding with urgency, but most lazing like high chiefs at play. More than once, a patrol of marching warriors in full armor leaves the road so the paladins might pass unmolested with their guests, raising their spears in salute of all those worthy to ride the Horned King's roads. The first town in that paradise is everything the villages beyond were not. Children with pointed ears play in the streets, laughter and music comingling in the air with all the sweetness of wildflowers. The local priest and magistrate descend their long hall in splendor and greet the delegates with a warmth normally reserved for family, taking great pains to entertain their guests and imparting a smattering of the local tongue. Here and there, dead Blightspawn hang as trophies from tall white totems, each festooned with red streamers and bearing carved prayers of thanks to the Horned King and his chosen. The Crimson Kingdom seems a paradise.

And the price is clear to see.

On the outskirts of the elven towns, the representatives pass sprawling stables where thinking beings are kept instead of beasts. Most are human, but the depredations of the Hounds have brought goliaths into the fold as well. Collared in copper or silver, the slaves attend to every menial task, spreading through the fields around the town like ants at daybreak, serving food at the high tables feasting the representatives for their coming, even attending the delegates directly when they retire to their chambers. None is willing to speak with the strangers from beyond the mountains, and the elves of the Crimson Kingdom treat them with the casual affection one might show a hunting dog, fully at peace with the possibility the beast might not return alive from an expedition. Everywhere the strangers from Mamut travel in the Crimson Kingdom, the scene repeats, a land of plenty built upon the sweat and blood of the enslaved. At last, the paladins leave the lowlands, travelling painstakingly carved paths into the mountains, to the seat of the Horned King's power, Caloth Mawr.

Emerging from a misty pass, the delegations behold a city of splendor unequaled save perhaps by the fatted boulevards of Kursaal, a dizzying array of towers, arcades, and plazas in red and white stone. Red walls gird the city across the width of its valley, broken only by two rushing streams of pure water, ice cold from the melting snow. Rising above the city in the last foothills before the mountains close is a palace of red marble, its roofs tiled in the same polished metal as the paladins' armor. And above that, carved into the very face of the mountains themselves, an array of battlements and galleries that betrays the presence of a grand fortress beyond. Passing beneath gates studded in silver reliefs of elven mastery, the visitors ascend the gentle slope of the city's natural rise, their destination always ahead of them, the streets flanked with gleeful citizens showering their visitors with flower petals. At last, the Horned King's victims pass the threshold of his palace, ascending wide stairs to a long airy hall. Seated atop a dais facing them is an elf, and yet not an elf, his form and proportions similar to what the delegates have seen but larger again almost by half. Though it is difficult to be sure as he slouches atop his ancient stone throne, he must be almost eight feet tall. His skin beneath robes of brilliant crimson is the deep gold of wheat ready for harvest, and a crown of glossy black horns curls up from beneath auburn tresses. Black eyes gaze out over the assembled diplomats, before he smiles and bares too-sharp teeth.

"Welcome, my guests from the Forgotten East. Your people have my congratulations - it is no easy thing to overcome my Hounds when they have the taste of blood."

The Truthseers attending the diplomats speak quickly to translate the King's lilting tongue, and as they do so he stands to his full height. The shadows of the throne shift to follow him, revealing a war club of glossy black propped ominously at his right hand.

"Come in peace to Caloth Mawr, and recognize our strength as we recognize your own. A grand celebration is planned in your honor, but before such pleasantries you no doubt have many questions."

[mystic1110]

Rose walks this time, used to birth; she cradles her baby daughter and the new heir of the Targiz to her breast, while Ces walks with her young son close behind. There were those that spoke out against the Odds-Mistress, the nascent title for the leader of Kursaal, taking her offspring into the lands of teeth beyond the mountain from where the hated hunt had emerged from, but her gentle and confident smile placed them at ease. Behind Gled and his masked guardian, walks a representative of the Deru who had aided the Targiz during their time of need. The travelers are surrounded by a contingent of Kursaal Guards and they walk in the shadows cast by the Deru’s leaves.

Along the journey, led by the Horned King’s Paladins, Ces spies the King’s Hounds in the distance. He stops in his tracks while the rest of the party continued unabated. Briefly standing alone he peers through his half mask – tinged with green copper – and tries to find some hint of antlers, some hint of the Huntmaster himself, but the Hounds are too far and he cannot distinguish one from another. Turning back to the party, he walks faster to catch up to them while he clenches his former sword-hand. He blames the Hunt for Ogra’s death and his own disfigurement but bottles the hatred along with his self-hatred for Rose’s and her children’s sake. If they could be kept safe from further deprivations, he would consider his duty fulfilled; nonetheless, he nurses thoughts of revenge.

Reaching the first village of the Crimson Kingdom, Gled’s bright green eyes perk up at the sight of other children and he tries to jog out to join them in their play. However, a stern look from Ces causes him to falter and he looks downcast, but remains between his mother and his custodian. Rose meanwhile does stop on the King’s Road, causing the Paladins to pause; she gracefully kneels down, still holding Nyct to her bosom, to pick up a wild flower. Holding it in front of her, she carefully braids it into the garland that she wears on her head. She picks another flower to place on the tiny blossom crown on sleeping Nyct’s head, otherwise only covered with wispy fair hair, and one more to place on top of Gled’s own wreath. The wild flower was purple and looked like a bell. It was a hyssop, that ancient god of Sacrifice and Purification.

Passing the stables, the Kursaal Guards and their nominal leader, Ces, look ashen at the Golaiths and humans but stay silent. It is no secret that those with crushing debt in Kursaal are often rounded up and sold to slavers in the north so the concept is not an anathema to the delegation from the Targiz; they are only dismayed at seeing the conditions and status of the slaves first hand. Each man and woman among them look inwards at their own hypocrisy and wonder if they should reproach themselves or accept it as a truth of the world. All among them that is except for Rose, who maintains that air of pleasant motherhood, innocent of everything and accepting of all. It is strange how she walks almost carefree in this land that has led to so much death in her home.

Entering the red city of Caloth Mawr, the envoys falter at the grandeur of the realm. Kursall may be as large and as wealthy, but it is a cobbled city around a stone ring of tracks and fields, built for the purpose of rolling dice and folded cards, and as such was built in shadows and grimy mud, of dens for jimson weed and temples for brothels – this was a city built for glory, the shining red sun to their city of a wine drenched moon. They ascend the stairs of the Horned King’s palace, showered with flower petals. Ces, his hand seemingly constantly on his pommel, searching for threats, picked one of the petals from the air. He cursed that his knowledge of flowers hadn’t improved in all the years he lived in Targiz, he wished he knew what this one meant, what it was an omen of.

Finally, they reach the hall of the Crimson King themselves. The frowning guards had carried jugs of the finest of flower-wine and set them down; they are not at ease in this land that had haunted their nightmares but even so guest right must be observed. Ces looks at the Horned King and could not help but repeat the Huntmaster’s words that had become a mantra of madness to him.

For the King.

The young prince, Gled, looks at the Elfin Giant and his eyes easily pass over him, he is to a child like Gled merely another adult, but Gled’s eyes focus on the war club entranced, clearly hoping that he’ll get a chance to pick it up.

Rose though maintains her composure, it is uncertain whether it ever left, her guards and Ces have merely seen her embody the ideals of motherhood as she fed Nyct and whispered soothing words to Gled all journey. Rose walks forward from the group to stand before the Horned King himself, she is wearing a simple robe that may be made of linen or silk the color of clotted cream, she wears flowers of welcoming and peace in her hair with that bright purple hyssop like a jewel adorned in the center. She cradles Nyct, who is now awake, in one arm, while extending the other sideways palm up in the traditional greetings of the Goliaths. Rose speaks with a clear but somehow tranquilizing voice, almost lulling people to sleep as if there was too much pollen in the air and it is better to close your eyes and to give into your dreams.

Greetings, your Majesty - I am the Odds-Mistress Ank’Anske’Thalez’ir Ogra of Kursaal in the Land of the Targiz. We thank you for your invitation and have brought the finest wine from our lands in recognition of your grace. We have heard much of the Horned King, but know so little. Please share your history and I will listen to whatever you wish to tell.

Rose speaks as if she is a mother to all, she doesn't demand but indulges others, her children, into sharing their words, and they mostly gladly oblige. Often people just want a confidant. Nyct looks on the proceedings with solemn green eyes - seemingly old yet just born.

[Zayuz]

The Warchief Kylisa is guided through these strange lands, simultaneously relieved and reluctant to see an olive branch extended between the Crimson Kingdom and her own peoples. The invitations were gifted to the four kingdoms intertwined with her dynasty, who had ultimately proven themselves worthy against the host of cannibals thrown against their gates. She travels with her designated paladin guide and however many of her family deign to come with her, as well as her friend from youth - Seek Makoa. The two girls seem ultimately impressed by the lavish lifestyles and immense respect that the paladins command; and the deadly efficiency with which they've dispatched their blightspawn. That their people paid reverence to their king, presumably a mortal, was somewhat laughable between the two. ...But terribly clever. Who would dare revolt against their king and god? The power that the role would wield would doubtless be intoxicating. Kylisa got a fine scolding from her clergy friend when she brought that idea up. Some people just didn't get it.

The price for all of this was quite unsettling. Slavery is something that Kylisa was tentatively used to, but never with such discipline and efficiency. Her slaves were merely servants paid instead with room and board, nothing quite like this. Her typically smug and playful attitude was washed away in isolated moral deliberation, caught between the idea of a power she craved that disgusted her all the same. Maybe it would be easier to stomach if the slaves were not her own race? Seeing humans among the chaff here was nothing less than heart-breaking.

Finally they arrived at the palace, and the shower of flower petals did manage to pick up her mood a little bit. Compared to the Horned King she was miniature, a few inches shy of six feet. She was decorated in fine white robes that were appropriately formal, accompanied by a host of sparkling green jewelry that the Blessed Vale was well known for. The robe was made to be cut in places to show the scintillating scales that marked some rare parts of her skin, the physical manifestation of her bloodline's gift and the medusa-blood that ran through her veins. The robes had not been her travelling clothes. Rather, she had brought them all the way here with the help of a servant of her own. If permitted she would also be under at least a three man guard, but she figured it wouldn't really do her any good anyways so it wasn't a point of contention.

She stared up at the King with guarded awe, taking a breath as she spoke. "It is... Good to be among the strong. I am Warchief Kylisa of Alqar, blessed daughter of Thalaz'ir Haraman and Merine, and wife of Tšrãák." For any of those names among them, she would gesture to them to allow introductions before any questions were posed. Given the chance (likely after the king answers Rose), she asks with a curious (and somewhat teasing) tone: "When might we expect the next horde to arrive at our doorstep? The men need not stand guard upon a border that poses no risk, and you claim now to offer your hand in friendship."

[Ausar]

Asha-Shuran keeps 3 eyes trained on the Horned King, the other left to roam the room, all 4 searching for danger. Although at only 12ft tall she is one of the smallest of the Deru, Asha is also one of the nimblest. A white-flowering Kinsubr, her canopy is in full bloom, with a nest of Illian highland falcons gifted her by Norren nestled in her upper branches. The journey was taxing on the young Deru, but she bore it well, staying a few feet off the highways. She never had liked the touch of cold stone. As Rose speaks, Asha shifts over to stand beside Ces and lays a lower branch on his sword arm. Her melodic rumbling voice says "If they mean to... hrrrmm... remove us... then your sword will do us... little good. Better to watch... hrm... and learn what we can." She lets out a rumbling sigh and takes a stride forwards, for a moment resting all 4 eyes on the large Elf King. "Your Hounds are vicious indeed, King. How do you keep them leashed?"

[Aventine]

Tribal relations among the Sọ́kǎu have always been fluid; enemies one day can be the closest of friends the next. And so it was entirely natural to Tšrãák that in the wake of a battle he might be invited to meet in friendship with a leader associated with his enemies. Gathering a few warriors, including the elf Ãzjé who had come upriver with him as part of his journeys to experience more of the wider world, he happily sets out west to see what the Horned King had to offer.

He watches the lands and peoples he passes on the way with interest and troublesome thoughts. Unless it was being carefully hidden from them, there seemed to be no one out here powerful enough to threaten the Crimson Kingdom. The chieftain and king was not deluded, he knew he had performed more poorly against the Hounds than he had hoped. That sheer overwhelming numbers had saved the battle for him, and that he had paid the price for that in warriors slain on the fields. The savages and hounds being so cowed by the paladins spoke to the power of the Crimson Kingdom. But the Kingdom itself was at peace. Or appeared to be. Warriors need experience; it is by overcoming powerful rivals and enemies that one becomes strong. Only the weak preyed on the weak. If the savages and hounds were weak compared to the Crimson Kingdom, where were the enemies powerful enough to make them strong? Admittedly, there seemed to be no shortage of dead blightspawn which could offer an explanation. But the thought of what else might be hidden out in the unknown that was strong enough to keep these elves so sharp was disturbing.

Ãzjé, meanwhile, was somewhat disappointed. He had hoped that these elves from the distant west might be more similar to his own people back east. But they were more like the humans and other, similar people of Mamut. Building, farming, all the other weak nonsense like that. The greatest and truest life was that of a predator. He found himself with more respect for the Hounds than these paladins. And nothing but scorn for the slaves. They were no different from the domesticated animals he’d seen from time to time. They might be herbivores, but the wild aurochs of Héokalón were at least still relatively worthy, and utterly unlike the tame cows of Jù Fǎihlè. Who would choose life as a domesticated animal over a bloody death? He wondered if the elves here even bothered to eat the slaves when they died. What would be the point in eating the souls of such weaklings?

"Welcome, my guests from the Forgotten East. Your people have my congratulations - it is no easy thing to overcome my Hounds when they have the taste of blood."

The Truthseers attending the diplomats speak quickly to translate the King's lilting tongue, and as they do so he stands to his full height. The shadows of the throne shift to follow him, revealing a war club of glossy black propped ominously at his right hand.

"Come in peace to Caloth Mawr, and recognize our strength as we recognize your own. A grand celebration is planned in your honor, but before such pleasantries you no doubt have many questions."

"I, Sọ́gẹ Yúkró khùw Tšrãák: Chieftain of the Sọ́gẹ, Son of the Sky and King of Héokalón, thank you for your generosity in hosting us today! May the winds and currents favor you and continue to bring you wealth and victory."

The "grand celebration" was probably going to do more to influence his opinion of the Horned King than questions, barring any shocking breach of honor and hospitality here. So having said his introduction he waited to see what questions the others had, and what answers they would get. Ãzjé stayed quiet himself, too uncomfortable with such a foreign and alien environment.

[TheDarkDM]

As Rose approaches, the features of the Horned King come into sharp relief. So close, she realizes that the black of his eyes is merely a trick of the light - his whites and irises are in fact a red so deep it swallows the light, broken only by the inky black of his pupils. His horns too are black only near their curved points, lightening to the same deep ruby color where they emerge from his skin. Unperturbed by the beatific mother's closeness, he raises a weathered hand to Nyct's cheek, stroking the child with a father's tenderness.

"You show great character in keeping your children close at hand, Odds-Mistress. Our parents are ever our truest defenders."

Pausing to allow the Truthseer to do her work, his lips quirk in a smile.

"What strange arts you carry with you. Servants such as these are unknown in my kingdom, but their quality is plain to see."

His eyes pass over the rest of the assembly, shining with special curiosity at Asha-Shuran. The questions that follow are clearly expected.

"As your safety is assured through my lands, so too are your homes sacrosanct while we remain friends. My Hounds are brutal beasts, it is true, but like all beasts they are capable of discipline..."

His eyes flick back towards the throne and the looming war club.

"...if one applies a firm hand. My priests ensure their devotion to me is pure, and my paladins nurture their fear in kind. Love and terror, in equal balance. Such is the way of strength."

Moving past Rose, he strides forward to examine the peoples from the East, kneeling down to look Gled in the eye.

"Strength such as you will have, son. I can see you carry a warrior's heart."

His hands pass over the assorted gifts, never touching, nose quivering as if stepping through a field of flowers for the first time.

"Such lives you all have lived. A true history is the business of scribes and tablets, but I suspect we have much in common. My people endured the Calamity by fleeing to the mountains when I was but a young man. Here we found sanctuary, but also hardships innumerable. It was a blessing of our birth that saved us, the blood-knowledge passed down over generations. After the Calamity, its blessings began to manifest even more strongly, and eventually I led my people out of their isolation to tame the wild lands below. We never imagined life had survived in such profusion to the East."

[mystic1110]

Nyct barely reacts to the strange touch of the Horned King, the baby unnaturally calm, taking after her mother. The Odds-Mistress herself smiled at the Horned King’s efforts and his words. She replies in her somnolent cadence.

Love and Terror are formidable flowers. The pink, lilac, purple and white strands of the Mallow and the crimson and maize of the Dahlia are a frightful bouquet. We worship other blossoms higher, those of ivory Jasmine and gold Poppy, and one higher even still, but all blooms we worship. We too know the price, the need of blood for devotion.

The last line could’ve been spoken with the reluctance of such need, or even thirsty sadistic glee; it could have been spoken with reverence of ritual or sadness for the victims. Instead Rose spoke with the quiet of maternal understanding.

Ces meanwhile, is a corded rope of a man, twisted with conflicting feelings and strung like a wire across a chasm. Asha-Shuran’s words did little to ease him and the Horned King’s explanation was insufficient for the horrors he and Kursaal endured at the hands of the Huntmaster. Nonetheless, he keeps his mouth closed, he must consider his duty to Rose and the children, duty above self as the Uzii taught him, he was a sword, not a leader. More of a Hound than a master and everything about this kingdom told him that Hounds remain quiet.

Gled though, is awestruck at the sight of the Horned King bending over and calling him a warrior. Only four and already that tall in feet Gled dreams of adventures, demanding stories from his half-masked guardian, and what greater adventure could be had than those that come from the hall of such a presence. Perhaps stupidly, but with a child’s innocence he asks:

How do you become a Paladin?! I’m not too young am I?

Ces looks at him severely, Rose looks at him with affection, Gled looks slightly embarrassed, almost the same as when his mother told him he was not old enough to become a battle toad jockey.

[TheDarkDM]

The Horned King nods his approval at Rose's understanding, but his attention is quickly drawn back to the awestruck Gled.

"A man is never too young to begin defending that which he holds dear, young one. The path of a Paladin is long and arduous, but I am sure you could walk it with the proper teacher."

Standing back to his full height, the Horned King's voice rises to echo from the rafters of his hall.

"A grand celebration is planned for this evening - a feast at which we might share the sweet nectars of life. My servants will lead you to apartments where you might take your leisure, if there is naught else you would say?"

[mystic1110]

Gled’s eyes light up with excitement.

Could you teach me?!

Ces is horrified, but other that staring angrily at the boy and the Horned King through his half mask, he could say nothing.

Rose, not exactly intervening, Gled’s excitement seemingly welcome to her, raises her free arm, the one not holding Nyct (who remains quiet), in the Targizian expression of welcome.

We look forward to your hospitality and look forward to a more profitable union between our people.

[Zayuz]

The Horned King nods his approval at Rose's understanding, but his attention is quickly drawn back to the awestruck Gled.

"A man is never too young to begin defending that which he holds dear, young one. The path of a Paladin is long and arduous, but I am sure you could walk it with the proper teacher."

Standing back to his full height, the Horned King's voice rises to echo from the rafters of his hall.

"A grand celebration is planned for this evening - a feast at which we might share the sweet nectars of life. My servants will lead you to apartments where you might take your leisure, if there is naught else you would say?"

"Only one." Kylisa says, feeling some pressure upon her but maintaining her composure. "If you have any dynastic records I would love to glimpse them - particularly if you have any unwed children or are unwed yourself. Mingling among the strong has always been the way to stay ahead, and I'm sure that any arrangement would likely be to our mutual security and benefit." Her mind wanders to the Uzi who she intended to allow attack the Crimson Kingdom through the valley to get around the mountains. Surely to protect himself the Crimson King would at the very least consider something along those lines. "That is all." She finishes.

[Aventine]

"Such lives you all have lived. A true history is the business of scribes and tablets, but I suspect we have much in common. My people endured the Calamity by fleeing to the mountains when I was but a young man. Here we found sanctuary, but also hardships innumerable. It was a blessing of our birth that saved us, the blood-knowledge passed down over generations. After the Calamity, its blessings began to manifest even more strongly, and eventually I led my people out of their isolation to tame the wild lands below. We never imagined life had survived in such profusion to the East."

Ãzjé freezes, the discomfort and disappointment with the strangeness of his surroundings quickly changing to horror at the Horned King's words. "You...were alive during the Corruption? The 'Calamity'? Do you...remember...it?" The other peoples he had met in the wider world beyond the forest were short-lived races: children compared to him though he couldn't claim to be particularly old. But he knew some who were old enough to remember the last days of the last survivors who could remember the Corruption. Too many steps removed, there wasn't any value in third-hand information, especially when so much had been carefully and intentionally hidden to protect future generations. But he had heard the stories of the Sickness. Of what happened to anyone who could remember the "False Dawn." Their minds had been destroyed. And if his people had ever known and understood how and why, that knowledge had been intentionally taken beyond death, where it could never be found again. He'd honestly never even considered that that might be different here with these different elves.

Tšrãák gives his elvish companion a look, confused and disturbed by the unexpected emotion in response to what seemed a fairly mild revelation.

"Only one." Kylisa says, feeling some pressure upon her but maintaining her composure. "If you have any dynastic records I would love to glimpse them - particularly if you have any unwed children or are unwed yourself. Mingling among the strong has always been the way to stay ahead, and I'm sure that any arrangement would likely be to our mutual security and benefit." Her mind wanders to the Uzi who she intended to allow attack the Crimson Kingdom through the valley to get around the mountains. Surely to protect himself the Crimson King would at the very least consider something along those lines. "That is all." She finishes.

This, on the other hand, receives an enthusiastic nod from Tšrãák, but a relatively quiet response. "True indeed. True indeed. Marriage...and well said about 'mingling among the strong.' Very true indeed. Maybe a third wife?"

[Ausar]

Asha-Shuran was nodding along, following with a fair delay the passage of speech. While one of the swiftest-minded Deru yet grown, the bar set by most was not high. She struggled to keep up with the conversation, particularly the abrupt interjections of Gled, but at the mention of memory before the Calamity, she doggedly leapt back into the talk. "It is... hrrrm... curious that your hounds and your people took to the mountain for safety. Our Caretaker wed the Chosen of a people who took to the Rock, a peak on Ea's shores, and who fought until recently dog-men of the high hills. We have.. hrrrrm... perhaps, more in common than the Caretaker believes. If you have among you those that remember the Calamity then there is one thing I ask. These dog-men that now run beside us in the hunt live long, but their packs lost the knowledge of reading runes many years ago. We have Runestones on our sacred isle, in the centre of the Sannha at our home-coming. I ask you - do you believe your people could decipher the stones?"

[TheDarkDM]

The Throne Room

The dismissal radiating from the Horned King towards Ces is palpable as he smiles down at Gled before looking back towards Rose.

"That is a matter to discuss with your mother, young one."

Kylisa's voice draws the king's sanguine eye, his gaze searching hers with a mixture of curiosity and pride.

"My beloved gave me three children before she passed, and courtesans have given me many more. My eldest son Ceron and daughter Arlais are my right and left hands, my most trusted. It is not for me to dictate the course of their hearts, but if you wish to woo one or both of them you will have ample opportunity at the feast tonight."

The gasped question from Ãzjé finally breaks the Horned King's jovial demeanor, his smile fading as a cold and cruel hardness falls over his eyes.

"Yes, I was alive, but young. We did not see the Calamity as you did - it rose over the mountains like the sun and swept down in a flood of terrible light. Those who looked upon it directly were swift in dying, and any who partook of their blood soon followed them. We lost many of our greatest and wisest, and forgot much. I was young. I survived."

The king's demeanor slowly warmed.

"No doubt our peoples might share similar tales of hardship. Alas, friend tree, the death of our loremasters saw the loss of a great many old secrets. I would gladly send paladins to inspect these runes, but I cannot promise more than our best efforts."

The Banquet

Led from the Horned King's throne room, the dignitaries from the East soon find themselves in one of the palace's many towers. Apartments have been made ready to the best of the Crimson elves' ability, with only Asha-Shuran remaining woefully out of place nearby furniture clearly built for a more modest physique. Everywhere, paladins in gleaming armor walk their rounds, gossiping in the lilting tongue of the West. And beneath their notice, seemingly in every shadow, slaves. Slaves clearly taken from the finest stock, for to look upon them is to see a collection of great beauties and gallants ensorcelled by the simple weight of a silver collar. Unwilling to meet the eyes of any among the delegations, they still move with unerring speed to answer any request, allowing their temporary masters to luxuriate in the uncanny atmosphere without wanting for anything. Hours pass, and eventually a deep bell sounds from deeper in the palace, foreshadowing the arrival of smiling paladins to escort their charges.

On a lower level of the palace than the throne room, the Horned King's banquet hall seems fit to host an army, its outermost wings lost to shadows cast from roaring fireplaces in either wall. A raised platform bearing the king's high table stands across from the main doors, the path between them broken by an enormous firepit where something sizzles deliciously beneath a leather tent. Clearly, the centerpiece of the feast is to be a surprise. The easterners wad through a throng of smiling elves on their way to the high table, where the Horned King awaits them. Two more elves sit at the outermost edges of the table, smaller in stature yet still betraying the crimson eyes of their heritage, a man to the king's right and a woman to his left. Both wear robes similar to the king's own, if less ornate, Ceron's hair cropped short and alike in color with his father's, Arlais' a fiery red drawn up in an elaborate braid. As the guests of honor approach, all three stand.

"Welcome, strong and worth friends! Let all who look upon this table see the future, as we taste of each others' blood to build a bright future for all Mamut. My people, look upon your neighbors, the conquerors of the Forgotten East! Know that they have proven their worth against my Hounds, and that in them we have at last found worthy partners! Now, let us feast!"

A single clap echoes through the hall, and at once slaves bearing wide trays begin distributing food and drink to all assembled. Those closest to the king's table, as well as the high table itself, are graced by the flower wine of Targiz, but flowing alongside it and far further through the hall is an amber barley wine of the Kingdom's own vintners. Fresh bread overflows on every table in great loaves, alongside pies stuffed with game birds and steaming haunches of venison. Elsewhere, stranger and more unnerving dishes are seen, strips of flesh torn from bones that look distinctly human, clearly treated as a delicacy by the elves themselves. Chilled eyeballs stare unseeing with glassy pupils, only to be swallowed whole as a bracing palate cleanser. After almost an hour of revelry, the king claps once more, and all fall silent with a speed that defies simple respect.

"And now, let East meet West, as we celebrate a shared heritage!"

The signal given, the chefs working in secret around the central firepit pull away their leather curtains, revealing a singular roast inside. The smell washes over the delegates before they can truly process what they are seeing, the smell of rich fats and rare spices comingling to set the mouth to watering. At first, it appears to be a great boar impaled upon a spit for slow roasting, but then someone sights the hands folded and tied neatly atop the spine. It is an Uzii, and clearly a female by the size. The crowd in the banquet hall erupts into thunderous applause, and the trio of flushed chefs quickly slice several generous cuts from the Uzii's loin and ascend to the high table. Setting them steaming and bloody before the guests of honor, the Horned King raises his goblet of flower wine.

"To strength!"

[mystic1110]

The Throne Room

Rose inclines her head slightly at the King’s look, inviting him towards further conversation elsewhere and when more appropriate.

Elsewhere in the Palace

Whether the King himself comes to pay Rose a visit or a servant, or whether, whomever comes to attend to Rose enters her assigned bedchamber or in repose in an ornate hall way or garden, they would find her nursing Nyct. Her white dress slightly askew to reveal a pale breast and nyct quietly drinking her milk. Rose strokes her daughter’s hair lovingly and with a placid smile. She hums in a melodic and gentle pace a strange liturgy broken into a holy chant, more song than poem.

How sleepless/
the dying berries that fall/
from the face of the blameless/
shall give birth/
to the seeds of the never-born/
to share with the moths/
that gather in the night/
to suckle honey from the teat of the mother . . .

The tune trails off as the King or their servant enters. Rose looks up and smiles.

Ah, welcome. Thank you for your generous hospitality. I do not want to spoil my Son, but his wish may serve him and us both. Please, let us talk.

The Banquet

Often, in a commune in the Targiz, one could see a hallowed out gourd, placed on top of a hut, with a hole carved into it for the small birds like wrens or hummingbirds to come and rest during the day, nest during the winter and fledge their young when the snow melts. They fly away and the gourd remains for the next bird to rest its wings and sleep during the storms and lay its eggs. However, if Rose was a gourd, one would instead of birds, see a few lazy yellow bodies buzzing around the gourd as it laid on top of the hut. The wasps would enter and exit the hole in the gourd and would generally just crawl on it in strange patterns. The gourd would feel heavier in one’s sight than if you were imagining robins or nuthatches within. A great swarm instead of the two or four birds than there should be. Not instead of – displacing, the throng stinging and pushing out the family. The gourd was put out there for the birds but seeing it now one could see the muddy netting of the former nest darken at the bottom with a big wet spot and think, honey? There is no wasp honey.

Rose sits close to the Horned King and his heirs. She eyes the meat and does not seem revolted, nor does she seem pleased with it. Her face is always a mask, a mask like the skin of a snake – carelessly left out and open, there only because the snake was there and is now gone.

Rose takes a delicate hand, and strips a thin strip of meat from the grim offering. She slowly twirls it around her long finger and allows the strip to descend. Nyct, held in her arms grabs hold of the string and brings it to her mouth. Her green eyes are unaware of what is transpiring.

She begins to eat.

The Kursaal Guards, most of them anyway, and Ces sit at the table and stare at the dishes in horror. Ces in particular is going mad. The madness was always there, of course, but now it sounds within the man as if it were an ocean trapped in a mansion. One could picture endless rooms submerged beneath tides that swell and subside through what could be bedchambers, except now they roar and the salt from the sea spray strips the walls of their color leaving everything white as dead coral.

The cold angel appears at his side.

Don’t partake of the food. This is Evil.

The flaming daemon or devil appears next to his copper masked half.

Eat the food. This is Power.

His mind fractures further as he sees Rose feed Nyct. An Uzii, as tiny as his other apparitions, but now familiar – it was a copy of Tusker Shaman Deep-Sigh Thumpstrong, Ces’s mentor from Swampum. Thumpstrong appeared on the table next to the slab of Uziii meat looking at Ces sternly. Ces was about to open his mouth to apologize to the shaman when the shaman spoke.

Eat the food. This is your duty.

Ces whispered, for anyone else only to himself.

I can’t! It’s you!

It is not me, it was a young one who was too weak to live. It happens. And they are dead and you would be too if you do not show your appetite.

But . . .

Your master has eaten. Have you forgotten what we talked about? There is only one truth. Duty. There is only one law. Honor. You have been pledged and sworn. You have no free will. Follow your keeper.

Ces suddenly felt a titanic presence behind him and turned his head. It was the ghost of Ogra. Unlike the angel or the demon or even the shaman, Ogra’s wraith was as large as Ogra was in her prime, when Ces first saw her, when she took him from the cesspool and made him a sheriff.

I am disappointed in you. What kind of questions are these? To eat or not to eat. You should be jumping on this table and running towards this so called king and slitting his throat. My body is now soil due to this man and you sit at his table.

But your daughter. .

She is no daughter of mine.

But . . .

Don’t Fall into Evil.Eat for Power!Follow your DutyKill The King.Don’t Fall into Evil.Eat for Power!Kill The King.Follow your DutyDon’t Fall into Evil.Follow your DutyKill The King.Eat for Power!Don’t Fall into Evil.Follow your DutyEat for Power!Kill The King.Don’t Fall into Evil.Kill The King.Eat for Power!Follow your DutyDon’t Fall into Evil.Kill The King.Follow your DutyEat for Power!Kill The King.Don’t Fall into Evil.Eat for Power!Follow your DutyKill The King.Don’t Fall into Evil.Follow your DutyEat for Power!Kill The King.Follow your DutyEat for Power!Don’t Fall into Evil.Kill The King.Follow your DutyDon’t Fall into Evil.Eat for Power!Kill The King.Eat for Power!Don’t Fall into Evil.Follow your DutyKill The King.Eat for Power!Follow your DutyDon’t Fall into Evil.

The Chorus of voices from within his own head make him grasp the table for support and then suddenly silence as they are ripped away into the general solitude of a high table his mind seemingly his own. He begins to giggle, and then laugh, the other guards looking at him in alarm, Rose looking at him with what appears to be maternal worry, and he raises his bowl of flower wine and looks at the Horned King himself and his black and crimson eyes, and repeats the Huntmaster’s mantra out loud as a toast.

For the King.

[Zayuz]

This, on the other hand, receives an enthusiastic nod from Tšrãák, but a relatively quiet response. "True indeed. True indeed. Marriage...and well said about 'mingling among the strong.' Very true indeed. Maybe a third wife?"

Kylisa listens to the answer for her question and seems similarly delighted, nodding at his subtle suggestion with some enthusiasm. "We would learn so much of them." She whispers back, "And I would not mind the company."

Later she sits with her husband to feast, and seems quite uneasy with the consumption of sentient creatures. Scarcely what one would consider a picky eater at home, she carefully picks her meals for those which seem the least eerie - never in her life had such a blatant mockery been made. To feed humans other humans and expect them to just abide by it... No matter how well prepared or seasoned they would seem, she would not dine. Never before had she noticed the effects that living a more modest life in Alqar had lead her to, as some decade ago she imagined that she would have complied for the sake of appearance and strength. But now she saw her people on the plates before her, and she was notably dejected at the idea of anyone eating them. She gives Tšrãák an uneasy look, quickly passing the plate along when it came to her. The Uzi presented as the crown jewel of this feast caused her to visibly cringe.

"This is wicked." She says with contempt, making a move to stop him if he went to indulge. ...This should not prevent them from talking to the King's daughter, but this was not an aspect of their culture she wished to see her family partake in.

The Throne Room
The Chorus of voices from within his own head make him grasp the table for support and then suddenly silence as they are ripped away into the general solitude of a high table his mind seemingly his own. He begins to giggle, and then laugh, the other guards looking at him in alarm, Rose looking at him with what appears to be maternal worry, and he raises his bowl of flower wine and looks at the Horned King himself and his black and crimson eyes, and repeats the Huntmaster’s mantra out loud as a toast.

For the King.

Merine and Haraman attended the meeting, though they had remained quiet thus far. The Medusa had donned a hood the whole while, keeping entirely to herself - away from conversation, away from attention... Within the west these people might know more of her than she had ever disclosed to the 'forgotten east,' as these were her lands of origin. Somewhere out here was her home, and all who knew her knew she had no desire to ever speak of it, let alone revisit it. A viper's grip connects to Ces's left wrist, Merine looking down at him from behind not a moment after his toast. She wears determination beneath her cloak, and unlike the others who whispered to him, she was no illusion. Her words were an uncharacteristic steel that had never been known while she was with Ogra.

"This is not your King, Ces. What perversion of power these bloody kings and deathly priests play towards are not fit for a world born of light, nor a soul as valiant as yours. Might, Magic, and Words can all be overcome by even a novice so long as they are lucky, but integrity to one's self only wanes when freely given. Sacrifice it for noone, and ask others of it never. It is when the veil of darkness grows thick that we must cling to true strength the tightest."

She lets go of his arm, and moves on after saying her peace. She knew of Ces's life and journey better than any; to see him crack now with his guiding lights all extinguished was too much to allow in quiet passing.

[Aventine]

The gasped question from Ãzjé finally breaks the Horned King's jovial demeanor, his smile fading as a cold and cruel hardness falls over his eyes.

"Yes, I was alive, but young. We did not see the Calamity as you did - it rose over the mountains like the sun and swept down in a flood of terrible light. Those who looked upon it directly were swift in dying, and any who partook of their blood soon followed them. We lost many of our greatest and wisest, and forgot much. I was young. I survived."

Ãzjé nodded, but remained quiet, satisfied with that answer. The horror gave way to melancholy; the statement that they "lost many of [their] greatest and wisest, and forgot much" hit home. The idea that either distance, or the mountains, or whatever fortunate accident protected the Horned King's people from the worst of the Corruption made enough sense for now, though it was something worth pondering more later. But the sense of loss was overwhelming.

---

The Feast

Ãzjé partakes in the human food without hesitation. Kylisa's uneasy look, however, causes Tšrãák to hesitate. Seeing that response, the elf gives an exasperated grunt and leans over to speak in heavily accented Sọ́kǎu, "The dead are dead, my young friend. Better their souls join with ours and live again in us than that they fade away to nothing but wind and shadow while their bodies rot forgotten in the cold dirt. Do you think they prefer to rot? Eat!" That is enough to convince the chieftain to eat, though he takes as little as seems possible, to the mild disappointment of Ãzjé, and prefers the more familiar fare.

...

The Warchief's stronger response to the Uzii roast provokes a stronger reaction from the elf, who leans over Tšrãák to make sure Kylisa can hear him. "What good does it do to refuse? Your refusal is an insult to the dead. You have eaten flesh before and will do so again, no? Is this Uzii less worthy than them? Or do you think it is an honor to her that you refuse to eat? Then you would insult all the animals you have eaten. And they are a part of you now, their souls and yours, so you insult yourself..."

He is cut off by Tšrãák, "Enough, Ãzjé.

"He does have a point though, my love. She's dead; refusing to eat won't bring her back to life. If you don't want to start doing this back home, I'm not about to argue. But we're not going to stop this tonight. And there's no point in half-measures. If you want to stop it for good, the only choice is war. Are you ready for that? But tonight, we are guests."

[mystic1110]

Ces turned towards Merine, his eyes looking like rippling ponds, with too many waves caused by too many pebbles tossed carelessly in. He grinned.

He killed your lover and yet here you are, waiting for scraps from his table.

His statement was accusatory and yet given the state of his mind it had the lilting quality of a joke, as if Merine's actions weren't blameworthy but instead a punchline of some cosmic joke.

He laughed and drank more wine.

Relax, enjoy yourself. As Ogra used to say from one of her faiths - we are already dead.

[Zayuz]

The Feast

Ãzjé partakes in the human food without hesitation. Kylisa's uneasy look, however, causes Tšrãák to hesitate. Seeing that response, the elf gives an exasperated grunt and leans over to speak in heavily accented Sọ́kǎu, "The dead are dead, my young friend. Better their souls join with ours and live again in us than that they fade away to nothing but wind and shadow while their bodies rot forgotten in the cold dirt. Do you think they prefer to rot? Eat!" That is enough to convince the chieftain to eat, though he takes as little as seems possible, to the mild disappointment of Ãzjé, and prefers the more familiar fare.

...

The Warchief's stronger response to the Uzii roast provokes a stronger reaction from the elf, who leans over Tšrãák to make sure Kylisa can hear him. "What good does it do to refuse? Your refusal is an insult to the dead. You have eaten flesh before and will do so again, no? Is this Uzii less worthy than them? Or do you think it is an honor to her that you refuse to eat? Then you would insult all the animals you have eaten. And they are a part of you now, their souls and yours, so you insult yourself..."

He is cut off by Tšrãák, "Enough, Ãzjé.

"He does have a point though, my love. She's dead; refusing to eat won't bring her back to life. If you don't want to start doing this back home, I'm not about to argue. But we're not going to stop this tonight. And there's no point in half-measures. If you want to stop it for good, the only choice is war. Are you ready for that? But tonight, we are guests."

Ãzjé's coaxing earns him a disapproving look, but not the sort that truly meant any trouble. He had an point, and she considered it; hesitating until her husband intervened. After listening, she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. "You're right. It's just been so rare to find humans not under our protection... All this just feels like a failing to the people I'm supposed to be keeping safe. It's good to remember that nothing now can be done for them, and our host has put in some true effort to make things well for us." With a mustered smile, she takes a nibble of the meat she was otherwise refusing. It was surprisingly decent, and she didn't know if that made her feel better or worse about this. In any case, her demeanor returned to the more amicable sort that they were used to before long - slowly getting used to the ways of the west.

Ces turned towards Merine, his eyes looking like rippling ponds, with too many waves caused by too many pebbles tossed carelessly in. He grinned.

He killed your lover and yet here you are, waiting for scraps from his table.

His statement was accusatory and yet given the state of his mind it had the lilting quality of a joke, as if Merine's actions weren't blameworthy but instead a punchline of some cosmic joke.

He laughed and drank more wine.

Relax, enjoy yourself. As Ogra used to say from one of her faiths - we are already dead.

Anger bloomed within her, her patience put to the test and found... Nearly sufficient. Her words were accompanied with a snake-like hiss. "Watch your tongue, lest I add what fingers you have left to this feast." Merine takes a sharp breath and turns her head away while she continues. The snakes she has for hair watch him closely from beneath her hood. "You seem to be more keen to dine with her murderers than anyone here except Rose. She's a nightmare, isn't she? Nevermind - I know you're better than that, at least Ogra thought you were... I remember the way she talked about you before she actually died."

[mystic1110]

Ces shrugged, Merine's ire sliding off him like sanity itself - long sheets of ice from warming glaciers, crashing into the frozen ocean. At the moment he appeared too far gone for the rope which the Snake-haired woman extended towards him as he was drowning in his mind. Falling into the icy abyss, lungs filling with water, feeling fleeing from his finger tips and his heart. He continues to drink, his one time addiction, now his solace. He was like the prodigal son returning home to the bottle, his lips knowing the old curves, the bottle welcoming him like a parent no longer wanting to quarrel with their child and merely happy that they are home.

Ces looked at Rose, feeding Nyct god know what (oh, he knew, but even in the midst of this slippage of reality, he was unable to admit it out loud in his own head; or, more realistically, he did admit it, but the echo was drowned out by voices begging and cajoling him towards other actions). He merely replied, with something that laid on the intersection between reverence and disgust, almost as if smelling a flower with too strong of a perfume.

She's a good mother.

[Zayuz]

Ces shrugged, Merine's ire sliding off him like sanity itself - long sheets of ice from warming glaciers, crashing into the frozen ocean. At the moment he appeared too far gone for the rope which the Snake-haired woman extended towards him as he was drowning in his mind. Falling into the icy abyss, lungs filling with water, feeling fleeing from his finger tips and his heart. He continues to drink, his one time addiction, now his solace. He was like the prodigal son returning home to the bottle, his lips knowing the old curves, the bottle welcoming him like a parent no longer wanting to quarrel with their child and merely happy that they are home.

Ces looked at Rose, feeding Nyct god know what (oh, he knew, but even in the midst of this slippage of reality, he was unable to admit it out loud in his own head; or, more realistically, he did admit it, but the echo was drowned out by voices begging and cajoling him towards other actions). He merely replied, with something that laid on the intersection between reverence and disgust, almost as if smelling a flower with too strong of a perfume.

She's a good mother.

Merine started to retort, and stopped herself. There was something inside her that wanted to slap the bottle out of his hands and wake him up as if he were her child gone astray, but she knew in her heart that it was not her place - and it would cause a scene in a place where she desperately wanted to remain discreet. That was her granddaughter being fed human flesh, too young to know the difference - it struck at her heartchor A good mother... No. She was raising something equivalent to a gardener fostering weeds. After a tenuous glance in Rose's direction, she acknowledges her lack of progress with a defeated frown. "Right... I'm starting to think that my presence will only get in the way of your fun tonight. If you ever have a change of heart, I'll be there for you. It's what our lady would have wanted."

[TheDarkDM]

At last, the feast comes to a close, the luminaries of Caloth Mawr filtering out through the lower galleries to the city beyond. None passes the Horned King's table without a reverential bow, the knowledge of his absolute mastery a greater weight even than the rich fare filling their bellies. The representatives of Eastern Mamut are accompanied back to their apartments by their ever-watchful guardians, and find their apartments turned down in expectation of their arrival. Candles flickering in their sconces, the darkness outside seems all the deeper for the fires rising from deeper in the city, where the more humble of the Horned King's subjects still celebrate his glory before carved idols.

High in the tower, in the apartments of the Targiz, silence reigns save for the childish murmurs of Gled and Nyct, exhausted by their long day in a foreign land. Sleep proves more elusive for their mother however, and a knock at the door proves she is not alone. Pulling back the heavy bolt, Rose sees not the paladin assigned to guard her and her people, but the towering edifice of the Horned King, his robes still smelling faintly of smoke and blood.

"Pardon the intrusion at this late hour, my lady. My revel was a poor time for intimate conversation, and I understand there is more to be said between us. Will you share a drink with me?"

[mystic1110]

Gled is asleep in the bed that was provided from him, dreaming of heroics. He envisioned himself dressed as a shining paladin rescuing fair maidens and battling blightspawn. Ghosts from Ces's stories of Arrakh-Rah swarm around him, but he is not afraid as he swings around a giant club, the club that he saw in the court of the Horned King, and easily banishes the ghosts. In the waking world the young boy smiles.

Nyct is also asleep, she lays in a small crib - she is a quiet baby, not making a single cry throughout the night. It is unclear of what she dreams, but she grasps the air with her tiny hands and seemingly yanks whatever dreamt object it was to her mouth and unconsciously begins to chew.

Rose is awake - not restless, but contemplative, she is dressed in a white night gown made of silk imported by her own merchants. It is loosely tied and her form beneath is easy to see. Whereas Ogra was hard curves, Rose is strangely soft lines - despite motherhood she is a lithe figure, at odds with her goliath blood, tall and lanky compared to the statuesque forms of her sisters of the Targiz. While another woman in such a dress and in such a body might have cut a sharp form of white against the night in the background Rose seems too welcoming - not alluring, she presents herself as too innocent to be a seductress, but instead merely inviting. It is the feeling one may get from seeing a lioness lap the blood from her mates paws. One could imagine it is a warm gesture if one wasn't the prey. Rose doesn't seem surprised to see the Horned King at her chamber. She stands tall, not as tall as the God-King, but she is a Goliath, and is more than his equal in stature. She smiles gently, slightly extends her hands palms up to her sides, and invites him in.

Of course. It would be a poor Odds-Mistress of Kursaal that would refuse a cup of wine. Please come in and be made wanted.

[TheDarkDM]

Sliding into the Targiz apartments with disconcerting grace, the Horned King reveals a clay jug stamped with a facsimile of his profile and a pair of drinking horns.

"I thought, after enjoying the pleasure of your peoples' wine, I might return the gesture with a taste of our local ambrosia."

He places the horns into specially cut holes in a tall table near the fire, before cracking the wax seal on the jug. A sweet aroma wafts free, and he pours a stream of golden liquid into the horns. Setting the bottle aside, a mischievous smile creeps over his face, and from the folds of his robe he pulls free a bronze dagger.

"And now, the most precious ingredient."

With practiced ease, he cuts a shallow gash over his forearm, angling the flow to allow several drops to fall in each horn. Licking the cut to staunch the bleeding, he passes Rose a horn filled with gold shot through with deep crimson, almost like the play of veins through some luminous body.

"To the beginning of a long friendship, Odds-Mistress of the South."

He raises the horn to his lips and downs it in a single draught, mead and blood comingling on his tongue in clear rapture.

[mystic1110]

Rose takes the offered horn with her left hand and smiles as the King drinks it. She does not bring it to her lips immediately and instead looks within, seemingly trying to discern something in its depths. The swirl of blood in gold looked very much like domain of haruspexs and those that practice dririmancy, looking at entrails and how blood pools in the dirt to pretend to know the future. But, a daughter of Kursaal is beholden to another goddess, not even one of flowers – those that live within the city walls all hear the siren song of the goddess of fortunes lost and fortunes won, before which the words of fate and destiny are but ignored whispers.

Rose looks into the horn and sees the goddess sitting conspiratorially on the imagined green painted table within and looking directly at her, murmuring the words “Go all in”. She was there, murky and vivid at the same time, as if made from a dress of fool’s gold. Rose smiled and knew her for a fellow witch, her alluring white face hiding crooked hands and feet under the folds of her muddy frock, but she nodded and listened. Rose was the Odds-Mistress and the Sovereign Queen of Gamblers does not shy away from large wagers.

This is no mere wine, but a consecration. My prior gifts were poor alms in exchange, but I have the perfect pairing.

Holding the horn in one hand Rose moved towards Nyct’s crib where she bent over and grabbed a stained leather bag tied tightly with some rope. Using her free hand Rose expertly untied it with practiced movements. As soon as the bag was loosened a horrendous smell floated from it, dead fish and rotting rats. Gled, sleeping, wrinkled his nose in distaste, Nyct in contrast, seemed to smile in her slumber. There is actually no mystery as to why the younger child enjoyed the scent. The bag’s perfume seemed almost waxy and carried with it a sweet aroma that reminds one, strangely, of fecal matter, along the smells of vernix and blood, those smells, which we first smell when we are first born. Regardless of how vile the fragrance, the bouquet reminds one of the innocence that existed in the womb.

Reaching into the bag with her free hand, Rose pulls out two berries. They were small yet hideous; they looked like black blueberries that seemed to tremble with the movement of maggots or wasps trapped just beneath their skin. They almost glistened but the light that reflected off them was duller than it was, almost leaden. Rose takes one of these berries and brings it to her lips for a moment, and then looks at the Horned King offering it to him.

These are my sacraments. From my God to his Brother Immortal. To a union of thorns and horns, please accept this blessing.

Giving the fruit to the Lord of Caloth Mawr, Rose eats her own berry and drinks the offered ambrosia and blood, ecstasy and reverence from the duel communions taking hold of her - a brief gasp escapes her lips - her veins turn green and black but then fade back to their vivid blue against pale skin - and Rose composes herself with a flushed smile looking demurely and expectantly at the King.