1.2 The Street

The sky hung low over the street as Gerin Raevnes walked to the docks on the north extremity of the capital. The final draft of the Letter of Summons he wrote earlier was tucked away beneath his loose fitting robes. His feet carried him down the cobblestone streets which descended from the central citadel of Sisken, the capital city of the once glorious Nalin Empire which had fallen into decadence and fractured in the past hundred years.

Sisk expects the Lords to simply walk into the capital and accept him as true Emperor? Foolish. I thought he knew better than that. The Council will certainly be disappointed in his lack of foresight.

The last period of unification was some seven hundred years ago—Nivaek’s Peace. That was before the elf-like Gleshier appeared on the Dark Continent to the north; that was long before the slimy Deh Klon, half-breeds who sprung from the accursed sexual union of Gerin’s race, the Kraemen, and Gleshier, came to inhabit the Middle Isles.

Gerin shivered as he thought of the Deh Klon’s hairless, unnaturally skinny bodies, their gaunt faces and hollow cheeks almost always hidden beneath the shadow of a hooded dark robe. A race that dwelt mainly underground, the Kraemen saw them as aberrations—terrible results of illicit and clandestine sexual unions. The Middle Islands were crawling with them. Gerin hadn’t yet gotten used to their presence: the way they would sidle up to him, silent and brooding; the way they smiled as if they were privy to some secret he would never learn; the way they breathed so quietly and slightly, even after the most physically demanding activity.

Gerin shivered again. This time, it was because the cold night air had taken him by surprise as he emerged from the cover of the densely clustered buildings in the city proper. The dock was not much farther.

Summers have been colder than usual these past few years. Perhaps the spirits of the dead we’ve buried on the river all these years are coming back to warn us of some calamity. Though we cannot hear their wails of warning, their cold breath still buffets our exposed flesh as we scurry about in their wake.

1.1 The Table

"Who will challenge me?" Sisk looked around the long, yet uncomfortably narrow meeting room. Rather, the room was of an adequate width for the gathering: the table was entirely too big for the room. It dominated the floorspace, cramping the chairs that were arranged in perfectly spaced formation around the table--ten to a side, three to a head. The table itself was carved brilliantly with images of the bards who composed The Histories. Battles raged across the painted surface of the table as the carved wooden bards looked on with their lutes and pens and tablets in hand. Chairs rested around the table, ten to a side, three at each head. It was a little too ornate for Sisk's taste, as were the people seated around the table. His chief advisors had gathered in the room in an overly tidy fashion, much like the furniture. They were too pretty for their stations. They were mincing bureaucrats and unseasoned military men. He thought they rankled of too much money and not enough hardship.

It appears we're in need of another war. Soft men are crushed by hard times.

"Who would have the gall to march an army into the capital?" There were nods and murmurs of "no one".

"I will send messengers to the four Lords. They will see the reason in my invitation and join me in the capital to parley. Surely they can see that the people want the land united." Once again, there were nods accompanied by murmured affirmations.

"Good. Gerin Raevnes, draft up a Letter of Summons with the appropriate amount of pomposity to satisfy those relics. I'll be in my chambers."

Sisk pushed himself away from the table and stood. His advisers stood with him. They appeared to have only risen out of an overt desire to leave instead of respect for his position. He mentally noted who stood too quickly and who scurried away too much like a rat. Common rats are best crushed by the feet of commoners.