An idiot is caught reminiscing of past days and savoring, not without merit, another man’s misfortune, thought Regia's Master of Silence Lord Nattas, fittingly seething in silence, a tick bothering his left eye. Now what does this buffoon go and do, when confronted with a potentially trouble inducing query? Does he opt for stalling? Does he give himself any wiggle room to maneuver?

Nah.

Even Abrakas can’t help the fool, who puts his head in the guillotine’s lunette, to check on its blade’s bloody sharpness from below.

Fuck are you expecting to happen?

The God himself, pulls the fuckin’ lever and has a great laugh about it.

The meeting was still in full swing in the meantime and Storm turned his attention to it, since it was his bloody job.

“…I give it a month for the main body to start moving,” Lord Holt was saying, still in a pensive mood, after the King’s earlier announcement. “Let’s say forty days to reach Cartaport, then loading the men, animals and equipment onto the transports—”

“The men will walk,” The King said, interrupting him. Lord Holt frowned.

“Sir, with all the respect,” He looked at a map, he’d opened on the table, a marker in hand. “That’s a lot of walking to Alden.”

“Sir Demos!” The King snarled and the young man rushed towards the big table, almost at a full sprint. He stopped at attention, standing all straight, fist thumbing his chest once and thundered.

“King Alistair, at your service, Sir!”

It was impressive.

“Commander Demos,” The King started. “Let me congratulate you, on the position. At your age and we should check on that, I believe it’s quite the record.”

“Thank you, King Alistair. It is.”

Demos replied, sounding grateful. Storm would much have preferred him being cocky, or a right idiot. Take the onus off him sort of speak.

Abrakas, you realize no one in here gives a shit about you, but faithful Lord Nattas, right?

The King smacked his lips, playing with his ring while examining the young man’s posture.

“At ease Commander,” He said finally, somewhat in a better mood. “Now and on the matter at hand, can you bring the Legion from Cartagen to Alden?”

“Of course, King Alistair.”

“Do you need sea transports to do it?”

“The men will walk, Sir,” Demos replied, with no hesitation.

“For two months at least,” Lord Hold said disgusted. “You expect them to fight after that?”

“No. I expect them to walk to Alden,” King Alistair said, as calm as a cucumber. “That’s all.”

The matter of the Legion set aside, conversation moved towards economics, a raise in taxes for the Nobles was mentioned and after some brief, but colorful consideration, summarily dropped; with the general agreement that it was a poor idea.

With the meeting winding down and the King looking tired, but also satisfied, seeing the Kingdom in some semblance of order, the discussion turned to matters less internal. Storm waited patiently for them to finish, listening to every suggestion and proposal, trying to figure out motives, or hidden gains, behind the person making it.

It seems, putting aside, Storm thought, the matter of King Antoon deciding to fight the Khanate out the fuckin’ blue and the Khan behaving much worse, getting in diplomatic chaos with a kingdom, over a woman’s feelings, just like any other meeting. Other than the fact, Regia has already lost one of the King’s sons, due to the dispute.

He caught out the corner of his trained eye, High Magister Gordian, a hawkish man of keen intellect, not as fanatic as his mentor, High Magister of Uher and Grand Inquisitor of the Golden Spears, Rinus Kelholt, but a close second; watching Lord Holt talking with the King with a longing and attentiveness uncharacteristic of a chaste man, Storm turned his attention to a conversation, he’d disregarded at the outset, as unimportant.

“…we know his father was crazy, up and left the army in the middle of a rebellion. Abandoned us in the field Sir.”

“I was there,” King Alistair replied dryly. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“All I’m saying,” Lord Holt continued. “Perhaps the answer lies there. No reason to look for something else, My King.”

Alistair’s gaunt face and piercing blue eyes, made the stare he gave him formidable.

“The High King of the three Kingdoms,” He said, voice low, but extremely intense. “Is incapable. Is that what you’re suggesting, Lord Holt?”

“Insane my Lord.” The brave man replied.

“The hour is late, Lord Holt. Let us leave the matter and adjourn this meeting.”

Storm sensed Gordian getting up, before the man talked.

“King Alistair,” The high ranking, priest of Uher said, voice neutral. “There’s another way to look at the argument.”

The King turned his eyes on him, not in the best of moods.

“There’s no argument. Lord Holt’s idea, was dismissed.”

But the priest insisted.

“We are assuming, King Antoon is a fool—”

The King stopped him, with a wave of his hand.

The Hall turned silent.

Alistair glanced towards the two busy scribes, seated well out of sight. They had stopped writing and were focused on the heated exchange, uncertainty painted on their faces.

“No one is making this assumption, Magister Gordian.” The King said, nodding for them to leave the room. They did, picking up their considerable baggage, consisting of parchments, scrolls, quills, along with several small bottles of ink, with measured as much as well-practiced precision. It was a silent pantomime that greatly impressed Lord Nattas.

“Continue Magister Gordian, but be forewarned, my patience is running thin.”

“We don’t know,” Gordian begun, seemingly unaffected. Storm wondered, what his play was here; because the man wanted something. “What the king of Kaltha knows. Rumors are circulating though.”

“What rumors?” Alistair asked intrigued.

“There has been a resurgence, well known in our theological circles…” Storm sat back on his seat surprised. “…perhaps the Khan, more precisely his son’s wife, are non-believers, your Majesty.”

What?

Lord Nattas turned his head to stare at the leering High Magister.

“What are you saying, Gordian?” The King asked interested.

“Demon worshippers,” The man explained. “Dark Foul Acts practitioners, monster loving…” he paused for effect, before adding. “Flesh-eating Cannibals.”

Storm’s jaw almost hit the table. The reactions around him, being much in the same vein.

“Good gods.” Admiral Brakis said, wisely not picking sides.

“Uher’s curse you!” That was Lord Doris. Himself a devout follower of the Five.

Much as his cousin.

“You’re saying,” King Alistair said, voice grave and Storm tried to find a non-suspicious way to steer the conversation to something else, another matter. Any matter, but the shrewd High Magister, had picked his timing expertly. Talking now, could out himself as a non-believer, a fact mostly known by very few select individuals.

None of them, present.

And for what?

Abrakas? He hadn’t helped him at all.

Unless being a crippled man, living in a state of constant fear, was a gift.

Hear that? Oh, abhorrent beast of the depths.

I’m your only follower in here, just about ready to abandon you.

You better do something.

“The Khanate’s Heir is a convert, to the old Gods?” King Alistair asked.

“If his wife is a practitioner, as it is rumored,” Gordian continued undaunted, “Then damn right, I’m saying it. Probably that foul Prince, the one that slew brave Ralph, was one as well, why else—”

“ENOUGH!” King Alistair roared and Storm jumped back, almost falling from the seat, his leg numb. “I don’t want my son discussed in this instance, priest.”

“Apologies, my Lord,” Gordian said hastily.

The King rubbed his face with his hands, taking a moment to collect himself.

No one spoke in the meantime. Lord Doris giving the High Magister an acerbic stare.

“So King Antoon, having found… through Duke Winfield about this, prepares for war…” The King paused expecting an answer, which the priest provided.

“To defend the faith, my Lord. Defend the Five.”

“How are we to respond?”

“I understand, we can’t readily offer military assistance,” High Magister Gordian said. “But High Magister Kelholt,” An Issir, Storm added. “Suggested we mobilize the believers, root out the bad actors from within our midst.”

“That’s preposterous.”

That was Storm.

Blurting out, at another inopportune time.

Abrakas, you piece of slimy turd, I’m risking my fuckin’ neck here.

“Lord… Nattas?” Gordian asked, eyeing him much like one would, a dead and rotting worm in his cup of expensive wine. “You have something to add?”

“You want to have a crusade,” Storm said, getting up himself, a bloody ordeal for his hurt leg, so as to not look up to him. The pain, cathartic. “Begin a purge, of non-believers. Thinning our ranks of soldiers, men and women that could pick up a spear, and fight for Regia,” Gordian made to speak, but Storm raised his index finger to stop him. He hadn’t finished. “You do that with the suggestion of an Issir priest, your former mentor, just before a major conflict, even war, breaks out. As I said, even if you are right, High Magister. Your proposal, is preposterous.”

“Hear, hear.” Admiral Brakis said, banging the table.

King Alistair’s mouth crooked in a rare grin.

Even Lord Doris seemed impressed.

“Lord Nattas,” Gordian started, interrupting his elated moment. “Your family’s Crest, is a Kraken, if I’m not mistaken. Actually that brooch, you’re wearing, I think I see it.”

Abrakas, the abhorrent, frequently appeared as one.

“It’s a Squid.” Storm croaked, despite an effort to save it at the last minute.

“Are you sure? Because it looks to me…”

“Positive.” This time, he did better.

“I haven’t seen you in the Temple here. The Dome is such, a beautiful place… And you’ve been in Alden for some time now. Do you not favor Uher, Lord Nattas? Or Tyeus?” He added pointing at Disciple Ventor, the stoic man completely unimpressed, with the proceedings.

Storm gulped down nervously. He’d no plan nor words prepared, to convince a fanatic he was one of their lot. Of all he had carefully planned, that could help him stand on firm ground before this meeting, this wasn’t one them. And try as he fucking did, Storm couldn’t think of a distraction, having just gone all in, to prevent this foolishness, plunge the Kingdom into chaos.

“If you’re suggesting, Lord Nattas should pray to Uher, High Magister,” King Alistair noted, speaking unexpectedly, still a smirk on his lips. “Then you are in for a surprise. He’ll never do it, and if you want to know why, you should ask Flavia Vindex. She slept in his quarters last night. Right here, in my bloody palace.”

Storm let a breath he’d panicky held escape him.

Thank you, Abrakas.

And Parkor, for forcing me out of my house.

“Priestess Vindex,” Gordian said slowly, every word poisonous. “A follower of Naossis. I always thought you a degenerate, Lord Nattas. I guess, you’ve proven me right.”

Nattas wet his dry lips, in urgent need of at least a couple of goblets of wine.

The larger variant.

“Just serving the Five, dear Gordian, with exceptional gusto,” He replied, finding his form, his tone mocking and Disciple Ventor let out a weird chuckle, his stoical veneer breaking down.

Hah, Storm thought surprised. No wonder, he rarely speaks.

Darn fool, sounds like a chicken, having the runs.