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The battle may have been lost, the haven and sanctuary of their cause demolished - violated by the unbelievers. But it had not dented nor damaged the conviction with the shadow walker secreted away beneath the ruins of the old Order House. Buried beneath the burnt out shell of the structure he and his brethren had mutilated seemed a poetically appropriate place for his keeping. And apparent so too believed the new King of Taengea.
The monarch as he so called himself had ended the battle between soldier and drowned in a sea of blood, stained red in equal measure by both the followers of the Shade and the loyalists of Mikaelidas. It had been no great victory, merely a larger force succeeding in persistence. They leader was stubborn, the Creeder gave the prince turned king that, at least. And his dogged determination had slaughtered dozens of his men for the vantage of claiming a small unit if the Creed beaten. Such an arrogant high handedness for the sanctity of life was unsurprising from a Mikaelidas. Of that, the drowned one needed to remember.
After being taken down by a duo if Taengean Commanders the unit leader of the Creed had neither struggled nor ran. He knew the significance and importance of their family's purpose of the isle of Serenn, and he was not about to permit a moment of cowardice to ensure his death. If he managed to free himself, he would still be of use to the Great Shade. To die from such a thing as running would be foolish when plans were not yet in place. He would seek his opportunity at liberation at the right moment, and not before.
He had therefore been escorted without fuss. Tied and bound at the hands, his ankles hogtied to his wrists behind his back, he had been carted like a piece of cargo, hidden beneath a coarse sheet. No man but those who had been nearest upon his kidnapping knew him to even still be alive which only made the drowned smile beneath his wrappings. Any victorious leader after combat would wish to show off prisoners of war. Use them to decorate their triumph as a decorate to adorn their reputations. The fact that he had been kept hidden away so far? The good king Stephanos did not trust those closest to him. The cultists lips twisted sardonically beneath his mask. How sad...
In the moved from cart to prison cell, the black bindings wrapped around the Creed leader's head had come loose. Several of his captors had grabbed and tugged at whatever they found helpful as they shoved and pushed him in the path of their choosing. As such, several of the strips had slipped to allow a clear and bright view before on his his eyes, croppings of rich brown hair poking from between the slips of fabric. He had recognised the building immediately, as he had been one of the ones to set it aflame. He hadn't, at the time, known that there was an underground vault and cell carved from the rock below.
A cell the drowned one now called home.
Roughly ten by ten foot in size, the chambers was entirely dark now, the candles that had been left alight upon his arrival now burnt to nothing. Without the delivery of food or water, or the routine if lights on and off. The hostage knew nothing of the day or time. He knew only that he was hungry, thirsty and in the uncomfortable position of being physically chained to the chair on which he sat. A chair carved from the very rock itself and therefore unremovable from the floor.
There was no way the prisoner of war was going to be able to leave before starving to death unless circumstances changed...
And lo and behold, the door to the vault was open. A large shaft of light streaking into the room and widening as a figure blocked out a silhouette in the brightness of perhaps mid morning?
Tied to the chair with his hands behind the backboard. His feet Shaker through a hole in its base, the drowned one was unable to move or easily react in a physical manner to the king's presence but that didn't mean he had to give no reaction at all.
"Stephanos of Mikaelidas..."The Creed leader drawled, the first words heard by a drowned one since their arrival in Taengea. With the pursing of his lips, the Creed er was please that his mask had slipped enough to open a small gaped hole before his mouth. He spat. Hard. The expulsion landed at the new king's feet. "Pleasure to finally meet you."
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The battle may have been lost, the haven and sanctuary of their cause demolished - violated by the unbelievers. But it had not dented nor damaged the conviction with the shadow walker secreted away beneath the ruins of the old Order House. Buried beneath the burnt out shell of the structure he and his brethren had mutilated seemed a poetically appropriate place for his keeping. And apparent so too believed the new King of Taengea.
The monarch as he so called himself had ended the battle between soldier and drowned in a sea of blood, stained red in equal measure by both the followers of the Shade and the loyalists of Mikaelidas. It had been no great victory, merely a larger force succeeding in persistence. They leader was stubborn, the Creeder gave the prince turned king that, at least. And his dogged determination had slaughtered dozens of his men for the vantage of claiming a small unit if the Creed beaten. Such an arrogant high handedness for the sanctity of life was unsurprising from a Mikaelidas. Of that, the drowned one needed to remember.
After being taken down by a duo if Taengean Commanders the unit leader of the Creed had neither struggled nor ran. He knew the significance and importance of their family's purpose of the isle of Serenn, and he was not about to permit a moment of cowardice to ensure his death. If he managed to free himself, he would still be of use to the Great Shade. To die from such a thing as running would be foolish when plans were not yet in place. He would seek his opportunity at liberation at the right moment, and not before.
He had therefore been escorted without fuss. Tied and bound at the hands, his ankles hogtied to his wrists behind his back, he had been carted like a piece of cargo, hidden beneath a coarse sheet. No man but those who had been nearest upon his kidnapping knew him to even still be alive which only made the drowned smile beneath his wrappings. Any victorious leader after combat would wish to show off prisoners of war. Use them to decorate their triumph as a decorate to adorn their reputations. The fact that he had been kept hidden away so far? The good king Stephanos did not trust those closest to him. The cultists lips twisted sardonically beneath his mask. How sad...
In the moved from cart to prison cell, the black bindings wrapped around the Creed leader's head had come loose. Several of his captors had grabbed and tugged at whatever they found helpful as they shoved and pushed him in the path of their choosing. As such, several of the strips had slipped to allow a clear and bright view before on his his eyes, croppings of rich brown hair poking from between the slips of fabric. He had recognised the building immediately, as he had been one of the ones to set it aflame. He hadn't, at the time, known that there was an underground vault and cell carved from the rock below.
A cell the drowned one now called home.
Roughly ten by ten foot in size, the chambers was entirely dark now, the candles that had been left alight upon his arrival now burnt to nothing. Without the delivery of food or water, or the routine if lights on and off. The hostage knew nothing of the day or time. He knew only that he was hungry, thirsty and in the uncomfortable position of being physically chained to the chair on which he sat. A chair carved from the very rock itself and therefore unremovable from the floor.
There was no way the prisoner of war was going to be able to leave before starving to death unless circumstances changed...
And lo and behold, the door to the vault was open. A large shaft of light streaking into the room and widening as a figure blocked out a silhouette in the brightness of perhaps mid morning?
Tied to the chair with his hands behind the backboard. His feet Shaker through a hole in its base, the drowned one was unable to move or easily react in a physical manner to the king's presence but that didn't mean he had to give no reaction at all.
"Stephanos of Mikaelidas..."The Creed leader drawled, the first words heard by a drowned one since their arrival in Taengea. With the pursing of his lips, the Creed er was please that his mask had slipped enough to open a small gaped hole before his mouth. He spat. Hard. The expulsion landed at the new king's feet. "Pleasure to finally meet you."
The battle may have been lost, the haven and sanctuary of their cause demolished - violated by the unbelievers. But it had not dented nor damaged the conviction with the shadow walker secreted away beneath the ruins of the old Order House. Buried beneath the burnt out shell of the structure he and his brethren had mutilated seemed a poetically appropriate place for his keeping. And apparent so too believed the new King of Taengea.
The monarch as he so called himself had ended the battle between soldier and drowned in a sea of blood, stained red in equal measure by both the followers of the Shade and the loyalists of Mikaelidas. It had been no great victory, merely a larger force succeeding in persistence. They leader was stubborn, the Creeder gave the prince turned king that, at least. And his dogged determination had slaughtered dozens of his men for the vantage of claiming a small unit if the Creed beaten. Such an arrogant high handedness for the sanctity of life was unsurprising from a Mikaelidas. Of that, the drowned one needed to remember.
After being taken down by a duo if Taengean Commanders the unit leader of the Creed had neither struggled nor ran. He knew the significance and importance of their family's purpose of the isle of Serenn, and he was not about to permit a moment of cowardice to ensure his death. If he managed to free himself, he would still be of use to the Great Shade. To die from such a thing as running would be foolish when plans were not yet in place. He would seek his opportunity at liberation at the right moment, and not before.
He had therefore been escorted without fuss. Tied and bound at the hands, his ankles hogtied to his wrists behind his back, he had been carted like a piece of cargo, hidden beneath a coarse sheet. No man but those who had been nearest upon his kidnapping knew him to even still be alive which only made the drowned smile beneath his wrappings. Any victorious leader after combat would wish to show off prisoners of war. Use them to decorate their triumph as a decorate to adorn their reputations. The fact that he had been kept hidden away so far? The good king Stephanos did not trust those closest to him. The cultists lips twisted sardonically beneath his mask. How sad...
In the moved from cart to prison cell, the black bindings wrapped around the Creed leader's head had come loose. Several of his captors had grabbed and tugged at whatever they found helpful as they shoved and pushed him in the path of their choosing. As such, several of the strips had slipped to allow a clear and bright view before on his his eyes, croppings of rich brown hair poking from between the slips of fabric. He had recognised the building immediately, as he had been one of the ones to set it aflame. He hadn't, at the time, known that there was an underground vault and cell carved from the rock below.
A cell the drowned one now called home.
Roughly ten by ten foot in size, the chambers was entirely dark now, the candles that had been left alight upon his arrival now burnt to nothing. Without the delivery of food or water, or the routine if lights on and off. The hostage knew nothing of the day or time. He knew only that he was hungry, thirsty and in the uncomfortable position of being physically chained to the chair on which he sat. A chair carved from the very rock itself and therefore unremovable from the floor.
There was no way the prisoner of war was going to be able to leave before starving to death unless circumstances changed...
And lo and behold, the door to the vault was open. A large shaft of light streaking into the room and widening as a figure blocked out a silhouette in the brightness of perhaps mid morning?
Tied to the chair with his hands behind the backboard. His feet Shaker through a hole in its base, the drowned one was unable to move or easily react in a physical manner to the king's presence but that didn't mean he had to give no reaction at all.
"Stephanos of Mikaelidas..."The Creed leader drawled, the first words heard by a drowned one since their arrival in Taengea. With the pursing of his lips, the Creed er was please that his mask had slipped enough to open a small gaped hole before his mouth. He spat. Hard. The expulsion landed at the new king's feet. "Pleasure to finally meet you."
The wait to question this Creed leader had been torture. Going strictly by his own inclinations, he would have liked nothing more than to have questioned the deranged fool the very night of the battle. But that would not do. These things took time. Patience. Sure, after a battle the leader would have been thirsty by nightfall, and hungry besides.
However, because Stephanos had waited, the man’s throat would be burning and his stomach hollow. He would be weak from sitting for so long in the same position in the chair for a few days and nights on end. There could be no proper sleep. Probably the man’s limbs were numb by now also. After all, these weren’t ghosts they were dealing with. If nothing else, the king had proved that these cultists were made of flesh that could bleed, and, more importantly, die.
As he went about his days, his mind was always here, in this black cell, centered on the man chained to the stone chair. He did not have to imagine what this place looked like. He knew it well and it pleased him to think of this murderer stuck in this pit. Not knowing the day nor the hour, or when his last breath might be. The king was not known or thought to be a cruel man but every man has hidden darknesses.
So as not to announce his plans to his uncle or to anyone else, Stephanos did not leave just as the sun rose. He did not even go straight after breakfast. This day had gone very much like the ones before; where he saw to state affairs, fought with his uncle or mother, should he happen upon either one, and now, when he had a few hours for his own leisure, he went out for a ride to see the city. Naturally his horse might carry him this way. And, of course, it was only natural that he should want to go into the burned out Order House…
Here they were away from prying eyes and he did not bother to put on a grinning face for this man’s benefit. It was just as well. Nearly as soon as the door opened, spittal flew in his direction. He a second’s warning and backed up just enough to avoid it. The insult landed at his feet with a disgusting, nearly solid smack against the stone.
“So we haven’t met before,” Stephanos stepped over the wad of spit and moved further into the room. In his hand was a horn of water; cold and clear. In a pouch at his side was sweet bread, made with honey. Its fragrance mingled with the stench in the room. The man’s sweat and filth from having to sit for days in his own shit and urine was eye watering, and yet, here too, Stephanos took satisfaction in that. It was hard to take a man seriously in this condition.
Despite the smell, he took a long drink of water and leaned against the hard rock wall, looking the Creed leader over. There was so much he wanted to know...and so much he didn’t. And he wasn’t about to start with what he really, truly wanted.
“I suppose it must be a little pride wounding…” he said in mock casualty. “To know that all of those who were with you are now dead. You’re the only one left.”
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The wait to question this Creed leader had been torture. Going strictly by his own inclinations, he would have liked nothing more than to have questioned the deranged fool the very night of the battle. But that would not do. These things took time. Patience. Sure, after a battle the leader would have been thirsty by nightfall, and hungry besides.
However, because Stephanos had waited, the man’s throat would be burning and his stomach hollow. He would be weak from sitting for so long in the same position in the chair for a few days and nights on end. There could be no proper sleep. Probably the man’s limbs were numb by now also. After all, these weren’t ghosts they were dealing with. If nothing else, the king had proved that these cultists were made of flesh that could bleed, and, more importantly, die.
As he went about his days, his mind was always here, in this black cell, centered on the man chained to the stone chair. He did not have to imagine what this place looked like. He knew it well and it pleased him to think of this murderer stuck in this pit. Not knowing the day nor the hour, or when his last breath might be. The king was not known or thought to be a cruel man but every man has hidden darknesses.
So as not to announce his plans to his uncle or to anyone else, Stephanos did not leave just as the sun rose. He did not even go straight after breakfast. This day had gone very much like the ones before; where he saw to state affairs, fought with his uncle or mother, should he happen upon either one, and now, when he had a few hours for his own leisure, he went out for a ride to see the city. Naturally his horse might carry him this way. And, of course, it was only natural that he should want to go into the burned out Order House…
Here they were away from prying eyes and he did not bother to put on a grinning face for this man’s benefit. It was just as well. Nearly as soon as the door opened, spittal flew in his direction. He a second’s warning and backed up just enough to avoid it. The insult landed at his feet with a disgusting, nearly solid smack against the stone.
“So we haven’t met before,” Stephanos stepped over the wad of spit and moved further into the room. In his hand was a horn of water; cold and clear. In a pouch at his side was sweet bread, made with honey. Its fragrance mingled with the stench in the room. The man’s sweat and filth from having to sit for days in his own shit and urine was eye watering, and yet, here too, Stephanos took satisfaction in that. It was hard to take a man seriously in this condition.
Despite the smell, he took a long drink of water and leaned against the hard rock wall, looking the Creed leader over. There was so much he wanted to know...and so much he didn’t. And he wasn’t about to start with what he really, truly wanted.
“I suppose it must be a little pride wounding…” he said in mock casualty. “To know that all of those who were with you are now dead. You’re the only one left.”
The wait to question this Creed leader had been torture. Going strictly by his own inclinations, he would have liked nothing more than to have questioned the deranged fool the very night of the battle. But that would not do. These things took time. Patience. Sure, after a battle the leader would have been thirsty by nightfall, and hungry besides.
However, because Stephanos had waited, the man’s throat would be burning and his stomach hollow. He would be weak from sitting for so long in the same position in the chair for a few days and nights on end. There could be no proper sleep. Probably the man’s limbs were numb by now also. After all, these weren’t ghosts they were dealing with. If nothing else, the king had proved that these cultists were made of flesh that could bleed, and, more importantly, die.
As he went about his days, his mind was always here, in this black cell, centered on the man chained to the stone chair. He did not have to imagine what this place looked like. He knew it well and it pleased him to think of this murderer stuck in this pit. Not knowing the day nor the hour, or when his last breath might be. The king was not known or thought to be a cruel man but every man has hidden darknesses.
So as not to announce his plans to his uncle or to anyone else, Stephanos did not leave just as the sun rose. He did not even go straight after breakfast. This day had gone very much like the ones before; where he saw to state affairs, fought with his uncle or mother, should he happen upon either one, and now, when he had a few hours for his own leisure, he went out for a ride to see the city. Naturally his horse might carry him this way. And, of course, it was only natural that he should want to go into the burned out Order House…
Here they were away from prying eyes and he did not bother to put on a grinning face for this man’s benefit. It was just as well. Nearly as soon as the door opened, spittal flew in his direction. He a second’s warning and backed up just enough to avoid it. The insult landed at his feet with a disgusting, nearly solid smack against the stone.
“So we haven’t met before,” Stephanos stepped over the wad of spit and moved further into the room. In his hand was a horn of water; cold and clear. In a pouch at his side was sweet bread, made with honey. Its fragrance mingled with the stench in the room. The man’s sweat and filth from having to sit for days in his own shit and urine was eye watering, and yet, here too, Stephanos took satisfaction in that. It was hard to take a man seriously in this condition.
Despite the smell, he took a long drink of water and leaned against the hard rock wall, looking the Creed leader over. There was so much he wanted to know...and so much he didn’t. And he wasn’t about to start with what he really, truly wanted.
“I suppose it must be a little pride wounding…” he said in mock casualty. “To know that all of those who were with you are now dead. You’re the only one left.”
The king was his usual obnoxious self. He swaggered in all confidence and lightness. All easy nonchalance and arrogant smirk. The Creed leader felt his lip curl. This was the kind of person he hated most. The privileged. The ones born without worry or concern. Or saw the world as a game to be played and all the people in it merely pawns without thought or feeling of their own. It was why the man had joined the Creed. To rise up against men like the new king of Taengea. And the old king of Taengea. And anyone else in the upper echelons of the kingdom's society that, by lack of action, accepted the choices of their previous rulers that had thousands of their people subjugated into slavery without thought or consideration. Each individual's voice squashed and silenced.
It was why the Creed operated the way that it did. No small, individual voice that could be ignored. Instead, they banded together. Hid faces and identities and secured the attention of those around them by speaking loudly and in unison. They followed the code and order of their great leader and not a single person deviated from their cause. The cause of the people. Not the cause of the self.
Unlike this man...
Who thought of nothing else.
When the King confirmed that they had never met, the Creeder's lips changed from a curled snarl into a wide leer.
"Not personally, Stephy." He told the man, with a tone that was both light and airy and dripping in disrespect. "But you've also met me a dozen times over by now..."
When the King went on to comment about the drowned one being embarrassed, the cultist gave no reaction at all. He had been seated upright and straight when the man came in, his feet together and controlled, his hands fastened behind him without strain - as if he were just casually seated for dinner and held his hands behind his back via his own choice. Nothing about him indicated discomfort or embarrassment, despite the obviously horrendous captivity he was now kept in. It helped that, over time, his nose had gotten used to the smell.
When the new king mentioned how the Creeder was the last on, he couldn't help his response. A bubble of amusement blossomed in his chest and the man started to chuckle and then to laugh at the statement, his eyes bright with wickedness as he looked up from where the giggles had had him bending forwards. He shook his head.
"Are you really so stupid as to think that those in that cave were my only brothers?" He asked the man with a tone that suggested disappointment at the sheer near-sightedness of the man's vision. "Not very bright are you, little king?"
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The king was his usual obnoxious self. He swaggered in all confidence and lightness. All easy nonchalance and arrogant smirk. The Creed leader felt his lip curl. This was the kind of person he hated most. The privileged. The ones born without worry or concern. Or saw the world as a game to be played and all the people in it merely pawns without thought or feeling of their own. It was why the man had joined the Creed. To rise up against men like the new king of Taengea. And the old king of Taengea. And anyone else in the upper echelons of the kingdom's society that, by lack of action, accepted the choices of their previous rulers that had thousands of their people subjugated into slavery without thought or consideration. Each individual's voice squashed and silenced.
It was why the Creed operated the way that it did. No small, individual voice that could be ignored. Instead, they banded together. Hid faces and identities and secured the attention of those around them by speaking loudly and in unison. They followed the code and order of their great leader and not a single person deviated from their cause. The cause of the people. Not the cause of the self.
Unlike this man...
Who thought of nothing else.
When the King confirmed that they had never met, the Creeder's lips changed from a curled snarl into a wide leer.
"Not personally, Stephy." He told the man, with a tone that was both light and airy and dripping in disrespect. "But you've also met me a dozen times over by now..."
When the King went on to comment about the drowned one being embarrassed, the cultist gave no reaction at all. He had been seated upright and straight when the man came in, his feet together and controlled, his hands fastened behind him without strain - as if he were just casually seated for dinner and held his hands behind his back via his own choice. Nothing about him indicated discomfort or embarrassment, despite the obviously horrendous captivity he was now kept in. It helped that, over time, his nose had gotten used to the smell.
When the new king mentioned how the Creeder was the last on, he couldn't help his response. A bubble of amusement blossomed in his chest and the man started to chuckle and then to laugh at the statement, his eyes bright with wickedness as he looked up from where the giggles had had him bending forwards. He shook his head.
"Are you really so stupid as to think that those in that cave were my only brothers?" He asked the man with a tone that suggested disappointment at the sheer near-sightedness of the man's vision. "Not very bright are you, little king?"
The king was his usual obnoxious self. He swaggered in all confidence and lightness. All easy nonchalance and arrogant smirk. The Creed leader felt his lip curl. This was the kind of person he hated most. The privileged. The ones born without worry or concern. Or saw the world as a game to be played and all the people in it merely pawns without thought or feeling of their own. It was why the man had joined the Creed. To rise up against men like the new king of Taengea. And the old king of Taengea. And anyone else in the upper echelons of the kingdom's society that, by lack of action, accepted the choices of their previous rulers that had thousands of their people subjugated into slavery without thought or consideration. Each individual's voice squashed and silenced.
It was why the Creed operated the way that it did. No small, individual voice that could be ignored. Instead, they banded together. Hid faces and identities and secured the attention of those around them by speaking loudly and in unison. They followed the code and order of their great leader and not a single person deviated from their cause. The cause of the people. Not the cause of the self.
Unlike this man...
Who thought of nothing else.
When the King confirmed that they had never met, the Creeder's lips changed from a curled snarl into a wide leer.
"Not personally, Stephy." He told the man, with a tone that was both light and airy and dripping in disrespect. "But you've also met me a dozen times over by now..."
When the King went on to comment about the drowned one being embarrassed, the cultist gave no reaction at all. He had been seated upright and straight when the man came in, his feet together and controlled, his hands fastened behind him without strain - as if he were just casually seated for dinner and held his hands behind his back via his own choice. Nothing about him indicated discomfort or embarrassment, despite the obviously horrendous captivity he was now kept in. It helped that, over time, his nose had gotten used to the smell.
When the new king mentioned how the Creeder was the last on, he couldn't help his response. A bubble of amusement blossomed in his chest and the man started to chuckle and then to laugh at the statement, his eyes bright with wickedness as he looked up from where the giggles had had him bending forwards. He shook his head.
"Are you really so stupid as to think that those in that cave were my only brothers?" He asked the man with a tone that suggested disappointment at the sheer near-sightedness of the man's vision. "Not very bright are you, little king?"
Because the Creed Leader’s face was still mostly covered by the tattered fabric that covered most of the man’s body, Stephanos could not see the smile that split the man’s face. He could hear it in the man’s voice, however. At the rude nickname, Stephanos merely kept up the indifferent expression. His arms were crossed over his chest and he leaned on one shoulder against the smooth rock wall, keeping his gaze toward the man tied to the chair. He gave no indication he’d even heard the confirmation and the accusation that they’d both never met, and *had* met several times.
That didn’t make sense. How could they have never met, and yet met? He assumed that this man was toying with him. There was nothing this man had to lose, and yet, Stephanos still remained convinced that he could weedle out information, either by cunning or force.
When the man began to laugh, Stephanos narrowed his eyes a fraction. At first he was miffed as to what was at all funny about any of this. But as the laughter grew, so did his irritation. He straightened up from the wall and stepped forward, the charade of being indifferent gone. The man managed to double over and Stephanos didn’t raise one finger to stop him from laughing. Instead, he closed the distance between them by half and waited until the man was done.
Chills crawled up his arms when the faceless figure finally sat back up and rasped out that there were more. Far more Creed than the ones just in the gorge. Of course there were. But how many? That was up for debate. If there were truly so many that wanted the monarchy to fall, then the crown would have had a revolution on its hands long before now. There would be people in the streets, rattling the gates to the palace, all demanding blood. No, he didn’t believe for an instant that the whole of Taengea wanted him or the nobility dead.
Were there a few? The answer to that was obvious and giggling right in front of him.
“Little King,” Stephanos repeated without emotion. He crossed his arms again and tried to keep in mind that he was not talking to a ghost, or a god, or some sort of immortal. This was a giggling lunatic covered in shit and blood. Whether he liked it or not, though, the mask was a bit unnerving as well as distracting.
He could see the fabric suck in under the man’s nose whenever he drew breath. The man’s lips and chin moved whenever he spoke and with the low lighting and Stephanos’s own shadow being cast over him, he wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t what the minions of Hades looked like. The kinds of men who were usually taken down here did not wear masks. And most of the time he wasn’t the only one in this room. His brothers of the order were usually present as well.
This, however, was a mission that the king had wanted to keep private. His aim was to ensure this man was dead before sunset and whatever information he could get was what he would get. Otherwise he’d have the grim satisfaction of strangling the life out of him. ...but he wanted to see it. Stephanos wasn’t someone who lived to see others in pain, but this was the exception to the rule. He wanted to see this man’s eyes bulge out of their sockets, the veins in his face and neck cord, his skin mottled purple and grey as his lips gained a pretty blue ring.
He stepped forward. His fingers curled into the fabric against the man’s face and he ripped it violently away, exposing the man’s face for the first time. No ghost. No demon. Flesh and blood human. His cold blue gaze swept over the other’s features. They’d not met, and yet met, several times. That at least was the claim. Now Stephanos could finally see whether or not this ludicrous claim was true.
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Because the Creed Leader’s face was still mostly covered by the tattered fabric that covered most of the man’s body, Stephanos could not see the smile that split the man’s face. He could hear it in the man’s voice, however. At the rude nickname, Stephanos merely kept up the indifferent expression. His arms were crossed over his chest and he leaned on one shoulder against the smooth rock wall, keeping his gaze toward the man tied to the chair. He gave no indication he’d even heard the confirmation and the accusation that they’d both never met, and *had* met several times.
That didn’t make sense. How could they have never met, and yet met? He assumed that this man was toying with him. There was nothing this man had to lose, and yet, Stephanos still remained convinced that he could weedle out information, either by cunning or force.
When the man began to laugh, Stephanos narrowed his eyes a fraction. At first he was miffed as to what was at all funny about any of this. But as the laughter grew, so did his irritation. He straightened up from the wall and stepped forward, the charade of being indifferent gone. The man managed to double over and Stephanos didn’t raise one finger to stop him from laughing. Instead, he closed the distance between them by half and waited until the man was done.
Chills crawled up his arms when the faceless figure finally sat back up and rasped out that there were more. Far more Creed than the ones just in the gorge. Of course there were. But how many? That was up for debate. If there were truly so many that wanted the monarchy to fall, then the crown would have had a revolution on its hands long before now. There would be people in the streets, rattling the gates to the palace, all demanding blood. No, he didn’t believe for an instant that the whole of Taengea wanted him or the nobility dead.
Were there a few? The answer to that was obvious and giggling right in front of him.
“Little King,” Stephanos repeated without emotion. He crossed his arms again and tried to keep in mind that he was not talking to a ghost, or a god, or some sort of immortal. This was a giggling lunatic covered in shit and blood. Whether he liked it or not, though, the mask was a bit unnerving as well as distracting.
He could see the fabric suck in under the man’s nose whenever he drew breath. The man’s lips and chin moved whenever he spoke and with the low lighting and Stephanos’s own shadow being cast over him, he wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t what the minions of Hades looked like. The kinds of men who were usually taken down here did not wear masks. And most of the time he wasn’t the only one in this room. His brothers of the order were usually present as well.
This, however, was a mission that the king had wanted to keep private. His aim was to ensure this man was dead before sunset and whatever information he could get was what he would get. Otherwise he’d have the grim satisfaction of strangling the life out of him. ...but he wanted to see it. Stephanos wasn’t someone who lived to see others in pain, but this was the exception to the rule. He wanted to see this man’s eyes bulge out of their sockets, the veins in his face and neck cord, his skin mottled purple and grey as his lips gained a pretty blue ring.
He stepped forward. His fingers curled into the fabric against the man’s face and he ripped it violently away, exposing the man’s face for the first time. No ghost. No demon. Flesh and blood human. His cold blue gaze swept over the other’s features. They’d not met, and yet met, several times. That at least was the claim. Now Stephanos could finally see whether or not this ludicrous claim was true.
Because the Creed Leader’s face was still mostly covered by the tattered fabric that covered most of the man’s body, Stephanos could not see the smile that split the man’s face. He could hear it in the man’s voice, however. At the rude nickname, Stephanos merely kept up the indifferent expression. His arms were crossed over his chest and he leaned on one shoulder against the smooth rock wall, keeping his gaze toward the man tied to the chair. He gave no indication he’d even heard the confirmation and the accusation that they’d both never met, and *had* met several times.
That didn’t make sense. How could they have never met, and yet met? He assumed that this man was toying with him. There was nothing this man had to lose, and yet, Stephanos still remained convinced that he could weedle out information, either by cunning or force.
When the man began to laugh, Stephanos narrowed his eyes a fraction. At first he was miffed as to what was at all funny about any of this. But as the laughter grew, so did his irritation. He straightened up from the wall and stepped forward, the charade of being indifferent gone. The man managed to double over and Stephanos didn’t raise one finger to stop him from laughing. Instead, he closed the distance between them by half and waited until the man was done.
Chills crawled up his arms when the faceless figure finally sat back up and rasped out that there were more. Far more Creed than the ones just in the gorge. Of course there were. But how many? That was up for debate. If there were truly so many that wanted the monarchy to fall, then the crown would have had a revolution on its hands long before now. There would be people in the streets, rattling the gates to the palace, all demanding blood. No, he didn’t believe for an instant that the whole of Taengea wanted him or the nobility dead.
Were there a few? The answer to that was obvious and giggling right in front of him.
“Little King,” Stephanos repeated without emotion. He crossed his arms again and tried to keep in mind that he was not talking to a ghost, or a god, or some sort of immortal. This was a giggling lunatic covered in shit and blood. Whether he liked it or not, though, the mask was a bit unnerving as well as distracting.
He could see the fabric suck in under the man’s nose whenever he drew breath. The man’s lips and chin moved whenever he spoke and with the low lighting and Stephanos’s own shadow being cast over him, he wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t what the minions of Hades looked like. The kinds of men who were usually taken down here did not wear masks. And most of the time he wasn’t the only one in this room. His brothers of the order were usually present as well.
This, however, was a mission that the king had wanted to keep private. His aim was to ensure this man was dead before sunset and whatever information he could get was what he would get. Otherwise he’d have the grim satisfaction of strangling the life out of him. ...but he wanted to see it. Stephanos wasn’t someone who lived to see others in pain, but this was the exception to the rule. He wanted to see this man’s eyes bulge out of their sockets, the veins in his face and neck cord, his skin mottled purple and grey as his lips gained a pretty blue ring.
He stepped forward. His fingers curled into the fabric against the man’s face and he ripped it violently away, exposing the man’s face for the first time. No ghost. No demon. Flesh and blood human. His cold blue gaze swept over the other’s features. They’d not met, and yet met, several times. That at least was the claim. Now Stephanos could finally see whether or not this ludicrous claim was true.
The man the king assumed to be a lunatic knew himself to be the exact opposite. A man free of the shackles and mores of the basic patriotism and considerations of the land and free to witness the world around him with objectivity. For what it truly was. For seeing not the Greater Good argument that so many rich and powerful men liked to throw around to justify their casual cruelty. But for seeing the real people, the actual fact and the real life impact the men in their palaces and treasure rooms conveniently forgot to notice.
When the king stepped forward the wrench the mask from his face, the Creeder's head snapped around with the force, his neck flaming hot and his temples tightening for a moment. His hair caught in the folds and the covering that had wrapped around his head had continued up from his neck so when the nobleman pulled, there was a moment of strangulation before the king let go and the long wrappings fell to hang down his chest and over his knees.
The man revealed by the mask was no-one in particular. His hair was brownish black, his eyes dark brown. His skin pallid, his teeth a little crooked and his nose looked like it had been broken in his youth. His face was nondescript and his overall presence unassuming. But his eyes held fire and promise and vigilance. Lighting his features into something that bordered on menacing. Not even dehydration and sitting in his own shit had been able to dull his belief and faith in his cause.
"See?" The man said with a tone of satisfaction. "Never met me before..." He told the king, confirming that his features were a that of a stranger. "But we have met time and again, in every masked face you've come across, in ever hidden brother you've killed and hung up on show..." The man smiled, the edges of his teeth yellowing. "When you fight the Creed you fight a single being. An entity you can't extinguish. Unlike you and your family, we're a shadow. An idea you can't eradicate."
A low chuckle seemed to try bubbling for the surface but the cultist kept it back and turned it into a single huff of amusement. "And we'll continue to plague your every step until everyone in your father's bloodline is extinct." His eyes seemed to flash fire. "Including those that have not yet arrived..."
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The man the king assumed to be a lunatic knew himself to be the exact opposite. A man free of the shackles and mores of the basic patriotism and considerations of the land and free to witness the world around him with objectivity. For what it truly was. For seeing not the Greater Good argument that so many rich and powerful men liked to throw around to justify their casual cruelty. But for seeing the real people, the actual fact and the real life impact the men in their palaces and treasure rooms conveniently forgot to notice.
When the king stepped forward the wrench the mask from his face, the Creeder's head snapped around with the force, his neck flaming hot and his temples tightening for a moment. His hair caught in the folds and the covering that had wrapped around his head had continued up from his neck so when the nobleman pulled, there was a moment of strangulation before the king let go and the long wrappings fell to hang down his chest and over his knees.
The man revealed by the mask was no-one in particular. His hair was brownish black, his eyes dark brown. His skin pallid, his teeth a little crooked and his nose looked like it had been broken in his youth. His face was nondescript and his overall presence unassuming. But his eyes held fire and promise and vigilance. Lighting his features into something that bordered on menacing. Not even dehydration and sitting in his own shit had been able to dull his belief and faith in his cause.
"See?" The man said with a tone of satisfaction. "Never met me before..." He told the king, confirming that his features were a that of a stranger. "But we have met time and again, in every masked face you've come across, in ever hidden brother you've killed and hung up on show..." The man smiled, the edges of his teeth yellowing. "When you fight the Creed you fight a single being. An entity you can't extinguish. Unlike you and your family, we're a shadow. An idea you can't eradicate."
A low chuckle seemed to try bubbling for the surface but the cultist kept it back and turned it into a single huff of amusement. "And we'll continue to plague your every step until everyone in your father's bloodline is extinct." His eyes seemed to flash fire. "Including those that have not yet arrived..."
The man the king assumed to be a lunatic knew himself to be the exact opposite. A man free of the shackles and mores of the basic patriotism and considerations of the land and free to witness the world around him with objectivity. For what it truly was. For seeing not the Greater Good argument that so many rich and powerful men liked to throw around to justify their casual cruelty. But for seeing the real people, the actual fact and the real life impact the men in their palaces and treasure rooms conveniently forgot to notice.
When the king stepped forward the wrench the mask from his face, the Creeder's head snapped around with the force, his neck flaming hot and his temples tightening for a moment. His hair caught in the folds and the covering that had wrapped around his head had continued up from his neck so when the nobleman pulled, there was a moment of strangulation before the king let go and the long wrappings fell to hang down his chest and over his knees.
The man revealed by the mask was no-one in particular. His hair was brownish black, his eyes dark brown. His skin pallid, his teeth a little crooked and his nose looked like it had been broken in his youth. His face was nondescript and his overall presence unassuming. But his eyes held fire and promise and vigilance. Lighting his features into something that bordered on menacing. Not even dehydration and sitting in his own shit had been able to dull his belief and faith in his cause.
"See?" The man said with a tone of satisfaction. "Never met me before..." He told the king, confirming that his features were a that of a stranger. "But we have met time and again, in every masked face you've come across, in ever hidden brother you've killed and hung up on show..." The man smiled, the edges of his teeth yellowing. "When you fight the Creed you fight a single being. An entity you can't extinguish. Unlike you and your family, we're a shadow. An idea you can't eradicate."
A low chuckle seemed to try bubbling for the surface but the cultist kept it back and turned it into a single huff of amusement. "And we'll continue to plague your every step until everyone in your father's bloodline is extinct." His eyes seemed to flash fire. "Including those that have not yet arrived..."
He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been expecting to find when he ripped off the mask. Of course, he knew he’d find a man, but perhaps one that was overtly evil or vile. He wouldn’t have been too shocked to discover that he had managed to perhaps sneak in a servant of the gods - a man who’d been tasked with mischief. To him, a Creed should have scales or dead, purple tinged skin. Perhaps a snake tongue or even be faceless underneath the mask.
All he was left to look at was an ordinary, inane, utterly uninteresting face. The sort of face that he would forget immediately after this man left his presence. The man was neither handsome nor ugly. He was something worse - nearly invisible to the memory. No one would assume he would rise to any sort of ambitious station, much less be leader of the Creed; a murderer of innocent men, women, and children.
While the man’s features were vague, Stephanos’s opinion of him was not in the least ambiguous. This man, and those like him, were the disgusting insects that had no business existing. Not when they were out to harm people for no reason other than the disparagy of wealth. There was no doubt in his mind that this unassuming man would absolutely harm an infant. Likely he would rip the newborn prince straight from Pia’s arms and dash the baby’s head on the ground, laughing as Pia wailed before striking her down as well.
Stephanos’s blood boiled in his veins. This revolting man had no business sucking in air. His heart did not deserve to beat. It was offensive that this sadist was alive while he, the king, had had to help move the bodies of children to their final resting place only a few short months ago. The Creed spoke about wanting to right their perceived slights, all the while giving no mercy to those who had nothing to do with their imagined injuries.
It took the king several breaths to calm himself. He had to step away and out of the room entirely. The Creed leader could think what he liked of him. Stephanos didn’t plan on leaving him alive long enough for it to matter.
He made sure to be out of sight of the Creed leader before leaning his forehead against the cool stone of the corridor outside the dank cave. The leader’s threats weren’t what was getting under his skin. The only thing that moron was doing was confirming that he’d been right to be concerned about the safety of himself and his family. Though the leader hadn’t mentioned his mother or sisters by name, their very existence wouldn’t go unpunished either. The thought of his father’s line, from himself to his son to his sisters being extinct made his skin crawl. ...and then he thought about that phrase again. “Everyone in your father’s bloodline.” Not “In the Mikaelidas bloodline”.
He frowned and pulled away from the wall, still staring at the rivlets in the stone. His father’s bloodline meant himself, Gianna, Xene, his unborn son. ...what about Irakles’s bloodline? Stephanos narrowed his eyes until they were icy slits. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made...Irakles hadn’t wanted to go to battle with the Creed and had seemed to actively be undermining any progress made to that end. His family home had not been raided during the attacks on the city...and Irakles had not been there when the king’s head and the prince’s blood drenched cloak had been on display.
It wasn’t like his uncle to give up any opportunity to be seen. Irakles was as vain as a peacock and twice as arrogant. More than that, he’d as good as admitted that he had been personally involved in the murder. But Irakles was a prince of Taengea. Why would the Creed work with him?
Stephanos’s eyes slowly worked their way along the wall and over to the black hole in the rock that led into the room where the Creed leader sat waiting. If that man could commit to sitting in his own piss and shit for three days, to wearing a mask, to not saying a single word during battle...then if it earned him whatever it was he wanted in the end...was he above working with or for a prince of the realm?
The idea was outlandish at best and a nightmare at worst.
Stephanos felt a little sick at the thought. He took in a breath and finally stepped back into view. His expression was stony and his hands were tight behind his back. Looking at the Creed leader, he said, “I wouldn’t call your nest of vermin an army. That would be an offense to the word...but there were quite a lot of you.” He let one hand come around and he scratched at the stubble on his chin as he considered the man before him. “There aren’t many farms around to pillage. Those were a lot of mouths to feed. You need money for that.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and set his hands on his hips as though he was dealing with a small child, rather than a fully grown man. “You all had a fair number of weapons too...Those don’t grow on trees either…You were all trained in how to use them. A bunch of ill content peasants don't know how to organize that way. You all had training. A fair bit of order and discipline. Something a General might be able to teach.”
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He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been expecting to find when he ripped off the mask. Of course, he knew he’d find a man, but perhaps one that was overtly evil or vile. He wouldn’t have been too shocked to discover that he had managed to perhaps sneak in a servant of the gods - a man who’d been tasked with mischief. To him, a Creed should have scales or dead, purple tinged skin. Perhaps a snake tongue or even be faceless underneath the mask.
All he was left to look at was an ordinary, inane, utterly uninteresting face. The sort of face that he would forget immediately after this man left his presence. The man was neither handsome nor ugly. He was something worse - nearly invisible to the memory. No one would assume he would rise to any sort of ambitious station, much less be leader of the Creed; a murderer of innocent men, women, and children.
While the man’s features were vague, Stephanos’s opinion of him was not in the least ambiguous. This man, and those like him, were the disgusting insects that had no business existing. Not when they were out to harm people for no reason other than the disparagy of wealth. There was no doubt in his mind that this unassuming man would absolutely harm an infant. Likely he would rip the newborn prince straight from Pia’s arms and dash the baby’s head on the ground, laughing as Pia wailed before striking her down as well.
Stephanos’s blood boiled in his veins. This revolting man had no business sucking in air. His heart did not deserve to beat. It was offensive that this sadist was alive while he, the king, had had to help move the bodies of children to their final resting place only a few short months ago. The Creed spoke about wanting to right their perceived slights, all the while giving no mercy to those who had nothing to do with their imagined injuries.
It took the king several breaths to calm himself. He had to step away and out of the room entirely. The Creed leader could think what he liked of him. Stephanos didn’t plan on leaving him alive long enough for it to matter.
He made sure to be out of sight of the Creed leader before leaning his forehead against the cool stone of the corridor outside the dank cave. The leader’s threats weren’t what was getting under his skin. The only thing that moron was doing was confirming that he’d been right to be concerned about the safety of himself and his family. Though the leader hadn’t mentioned his mother or sisters by name, their very existence wouldn’t go unpunished either. The thought of his father’s line, from himself to his son to his sisters being extinct made his skin crawl. ...and then he thought about that phrase again. “Everyone in your father’s bloodline.” Not “In the Mikaelidas bloodline”.
He frowned and pulled away from the wall, still staring at the rivlets in the stone. His father’s bloodline meant himself, Gianna, Xene, his unborn son. ...what about Irakles’s bloodline? Stephanos narrowed his eyes until they were icy slits. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made...Irakles hadn’t wanted to go to battle with the Creed and had seemed to actively be undermining any progress made to that end. His family home had not been raided during the attacks on the city...and Irakles had not been there when the king’s head and the prince’s blood drenched cloak had been on display.
It wasn’t like his uncle to give up any opportunity to be seen. Irakles was as vain as a peacock and twice as arrogant. More than that, he’d as good as admitted that he had been personally involved in the murder. But Irakles was a prince of Taengea. Why would the Creed work with him?
Stephanos’s eyes slowly worked their way along the wall and over to the black hole in the rock that led into the room where the Creed leader sat waiting. If that man could commit to sitting in his own piss and shit for three days, to wearing a mask, to not saying a single word during battle...then if it earned him whatever it was he wanted in the end...was he above working with or for a prince of the realm?
The idea was outlandish at best and a nightmare at worst.
Stephanos felt a little sick at the thought. He took in a breath and finally stepped back into view. His expression was stony and his hands were tight behind his back. Looking at the Creed leader, he said, “I wouldn’t call your nest of vermin an army. That would be an offense to the word...but there were quite a lot of you.” He let one hand come around and he scratched at the stubble on his chin as he considered the man before him. “There aren’t many farms around to pillage. Those were a lot of mouths to feed. You need money for that.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and set his hands on his hips as though he was dealing with a small child, rather than a fully grown man. “You all had a fair number of weapons too...Those don’t grow on trees either…You were all trained in how to use them. A bunch of ill content peasants don't know how to organize that way. You all had training. A fair bit of order and discipline. Something a General might be able to teach.”
He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been expecting to find when he ripped off the mask. Of course, he knew he’d find a man, but perhaps one that was overtly evil or vile. He wouldn’t have been too shocked to discover that he had managed to perhaps sneak in a servant of the gods - a man who’d been tasked with mischief. To him, a Creed should have scales or dead, purple tinged skin. Perhaps a snake tongue or even be faceless underneath the mask.
All he was left to look at was an ordinary, inane, utterly uninteresting face. The sort of face that he would forget immediately after this man left his presence. The man was neither handsome nor ugly. He was something worse - nearly invisible to the memory. No one would assume he would rise to any sort of ambitious station, much less be leader of the Creed; a murderer of innocent men, women, and children.
While the man’s features were vague, Stephanos’s opinion of him was not in the least ambiguous. This man, and those like him, were the disgusting insects that had no business existing. Not when they were out to harm people for no reason other than the disparagy of wealth. There was no doubt in his mind that this unassuming man would absolutely harm an infant. Likely he would rip the newborn prince straight from Pia’s arms and dash the baby’s head on the ground, laughing as Pia wailed before striking her down as well.
Stephanos’s blood boiled in his veins. This revolting man had no business sucking in air. His heart did not deserve to beat. It was offensive that this sadist was alive while he, the king, had had to help move the bodies of children to their final resting place only a few short months ago. The Creed spoke about wanting to right their perceived slights, all the while giving no mercy to those who had nothing to do with their imagined injuries.
It took the king several breaths to calm himself. He had to step away and out of the room entirely. The Creed leader could think what he liked of him. Stephanos didn’t plan on leaving him alive long enough for it to matter.
He made sure to be out of sight of the Creed leader before leaning his forehead against the cool stone of the corridor outside the dank cave. The leader’s threats weren’t what was getting under his skin. The only thing that moron was doing was confirming that he’d been right to be concerned about the safety of himself and his family. Though the leader hadn’t mentioned his mother or sisters by name, their very existence wouldn’t go unpunished either. The thought of his father’s line, from himself to his son to his sisters being extinct made his skin crawl. ...and then he thought about that phrase again. “Everyone in your father’s bloodline.” Not “In the Mikaelidas bloodline”.
He frowned and pulled away from the wall, still staring at the rivlets in the stone. His father’s bloodline meant himself, Gianna, Xene, his unborn son. ...what about Irakles’s bloodline? Stephanos narrowed his eyes until they were icy slits. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made...Irakles hadn’t wanted to go to battle with the Creed and had seemed to actively be undermining any progress made to that end. His family home had not been raided during the attacks on the city...and Irakles had not been there when the king’s head and the prince’s blood drenched cloak had been on display.
It wasn’t like his uncle to give up any opportunity to be seen. Irakles was as vain as a peacock and twice as arrogant. More than that, he’d as good as admitted that he had been personally involved in the murder. But Irakles was a prince of Taengea. Why would the Creed work with him?
Stephanos’s eyes slowly worked their way along the wall and over to the black hole in the rock that led into the room where the Creed leader sat waiting. If that man could commit to sitting in his own piss and shit for three days, to wearing a mask, to not saying a single word during battle...then if it earned him whatever it was he wanted in the end...was he above working with or for a prince of the realm?
The idea was outlandish at best and a nightmare at worst.
Stephanos felt a little sick at the thought. He took in a breath and finally stepped back into view. His expression was stony and his hands were tight behind his back. Looking at the Creed leader, he said, “I wouldn’t call your nest of vermin an army. That would be an offense to the word...but there were quite a lot of you.” He let one hand come around and he scratched at the stubble on his chin as he considered the man before him. “There aren’t many farms around to pillage. Those were a lot of mouths to feed. You need money for that.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and set his hands on his hips as though he was dealing with a small child, rather than a fully grown man. “You all had a fair number of weapons too...Those don’t grow on trees either…You were all trained in how to use them. A bunch of ill content peasants don't know how to organize that way. You all had training. A fair bit of order and discipline. Something a General might be able to teach.”
The Creeder strapped to the chair was happy to ridicule, threaten and even tease and poke at the young King however he saw fit. Throwing Stephanos of Mikaelidas off balance and encouraging him to act on rage was all to the benefit of those who stood against him. The Drowned One was secure in his faith and his beliefs. He would be living past this visit with the King. Either he would be executed as was lawful or he would be murdered here in the damp cave dungeon where he had been kept. He could choose to speak, or to remain silent, up until that moment. Verbalising the Creed's threads, their intent and their message was part of a member of the brethren's job. Revealing their secrets or something that could be used against them? That was something he would never be admitting, no matter how close to death he was brought. But... if he could avoid pain, that was always preferable. Perhaps he could make the man angry enough to kill him as he was interrogated... allowing his secrets to die with him and without the hours of additional suffering...
When the King had to leave the room for a moment, the Creeder smiled to himself, knowing his words were getting under his skin. Goodie-goodies such as the new King of Taengea hated to think they were in the wrong or that someone was after them specifically. It was, no doubt, an insane mental state that developed from being told you were perfect since birth.
This man had no logic or notion of what it meant to suffer. That was why he couldn't understand nor come to accept the view of the Creed. Even if he could not accept or tolerate the cult's actions and choices... he should have understood their plight. All leaders had to understand to be effective. Like the Shade... the Shade prefigures all... He understood his enemies and comprehended a future with them existent that took the fewest paths of collateral damage. It had been his vision that had ensured the death of the King and his firstborn.
When the second of that brood walked back into the room, the Creeder looked up from his seat and offered a twisted smile across one side of his mouth.
It was clear that the poncy prince - Gods he was tired of calling this man a "king" - was working through some logical ideas regarding the funding and resource supplies of the Creed. He seemed to be under the mistaken impression that, now that he was captured, the Creeder was somehow likely to be disloyal to his cause and would spill his guts.
"My brothers are still out there. They might be across the sea, but they were still there. My secrecy only affords them advantage." He smiled. "So, know this. The Shade keeps us plentiful. It's in his guidance that we flourish. You'll not find your answers from me..."
His smile turned into a sneer, practically daring the Mikaelidas son to get his hands dirty.
"You know... I killed your brother..." He told the man, his eyes flashing. "I had to do it silently, so no maids would come running in. No blood either - initially - for doors that seeped crimson have a tendency of being opened." The Creeder offered a full-blown grin across his face. "So, I strangled him." The cultist lifted his chin as if in pride for his efforts. "It was the Creed that killed your brother, true enough, but I was the weapon that handled the assignment... I wrapped my hands around his neck and squeezed... He kicked. He squirmed. By my brothers held down a limb each; there was no way your princely brother was getting up from his back." The Creeder's tongue poked over the edge of his teeth. "Do you know how big the eyes get when you can't breathe...?" His voice turned hushed and echoey in the room. "It never fails to amuse me how all men - no matter how strong or regal - call for their mothers before meeting their end... He could have saved the tears, though."
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The Creeder strapped to the chair was happy to ridicule, threaten and even tease and poke at the young King however he saw fit. Throwing Stephanos of Mikaelidas off balance and encouraging him to act on rage was all to the benefit of those who stood against him. The Drowned One was secure in his faith and his beliefs. He would be living past this visit with the King. Either he would be executed as was lawful or he would be murdered here in the damp cave dungeon where he had been kept. He could choose to speak, or to remain silent, up until that moment. Verbalising the Creed's threads, their intent and their message was part of a member of the brethren's job. Revealing their secrets or something that could be used against them? That was something he would never be admitting, no matter how close to death he was brought. But... if he could avoid pain, that was always preferable. Perhaps he could make the man angry enough to kill him as he was interrogated... allowing his secrets to die with him and without the hours of additional suffering...
When the King had to leave the room for a moment, the Creeder smiled to himself, knowing his words were getting under his skin. Goodie-goodies such as the new King of Taengea hated to think they were in the wrong or that someone was after them specifically. It was, no doubt, an insane mental state that developed from being told you were perfect since birth.
This man had no logic or notion of what it meant to suffer. That was why he couldn't understand nor come to accept the view of the Creed. Even if he could not accept or tolerate the cult's actions and choices... he should have understood their plight. All leaders had to understand to be effective. Like the Shade... the Shade prefigures all... He understood his enemies and comprehended a future with them existent that took the fewest paths of collateral damage. It had been his vision that had ensured the death of the King and his firstborn.
When the second of that brood walked back into the room, the Creeder looked up from his seat and offered a twisted smile across one side of his mouth.
It was clear that the poncy prince - Gods he was tired of calling this man a "king" - was working through some logical ideas regarding the funding and resource supplies of the Creed. He seemed to be under the mistaken impression that, now that he was captured, the Creeder was somehow likely to be disloyal to his cause and would spill his guts.
"My brothers are still out there. They might be across the sea, but they were still there. My secrecy only affords them advantage." He smiled. "So, know this. The Shade keeps us plentiful. It's in his guidance that we flourish. You'll not find your answers from me..."
His smile turned into a sneer, practically daring the Mikaelidas son to get his hands dirty.
"You know... I killed your brother..." He told the man, his eyes flashing. "I had to do it silently, so no maids would come running in. No blood either - initially - for doors that seeped crimson have a tendency of being opened." The Creeder offered a full-blown grin across his face. "So, I strangled him." The cultist lifted his chin as if in pride for his efforts. "It was the Creed that killed your brother, true enough, but I was the weapon that handled the assignment... I wrapped my hands around his neck and squeezed... He kicked. He squirmed. By my brothers held down a limb each; there was no way your princely brother was getting up from his back." The Creeder's tongue poked over the edge of his teeth. "Do you know how big the eyes get when you can't breathe...?" His voice turned hushed and echoey in the room. "It never fails to amuse me how all men - no matter how strong or regal - call for their mothers before meeting their end... He could have saved the tears, though."
The Creeder strapped to the chair was happy to ridicule, threaten and even tease and poke at the young King however he saw fit. Throwing Stephanos of Mikaelidas off balance and encouraging him to act on rage was all to the benefit of those who stood against him. The Drowned One was secure in his faith and his beliefs. He would be living past this visit with the King. Either he would be executed as was lawful or he would be murdered here in the damp cave dungeon where he had been kept. He could choose to speak, or to remain silent, up until that moment. Verbalising the Creed's threads, their intent and their message was part of a member of the brethren's job. Revealing their secrets or something that could be used against them? That was something he would never be admitting, no matter how close to death he was brought. But... if he could avoid pain, that was always preferable. Perhaps he could make the man angry enough to kill him as he was interrogated... allowing his secrets to die with him and without the hours of additional suffering...
When the King had to leave the room for a moment, the Creeder smiled to himself, knowing his words were getting under his skin. Goodie-goodies such as the new King of Taengea hated to think they were in the wrong or that someone was after them specifically. It was, no doubt, an insane mental state that developed from being told you were perfect since birth.
This man had no logic or notion of what it meant to suffer. That was why he couldn't understand nor come to accept the view of the Creed. Even if he could not accept or tolerate the cult's actions and choices... he should have understood their plight. All leaders had to understand to be effective. Like the Shade... the Shade prefigures all... He understood his enemies and comprehended a future with them existent that took the fewest paths of collateral damage. It had been his vision that had ensured the death of the King and his firstborn.
When the second of that brood walked back into the room, the Creeder looked up from his seat and offered a twisted smile across one side of his mouth.
It was clear that the poncy prince - Gods he was tired of calling this man a "king" - was working through some logical ideas regarding the funding and resource supplies of the Creed. He seemed to be under the mistaken impression that, now that he was captured, the Creeder was somehow likely to be disloyal to his cause and would spill his guts.
"My brothers are still out there. They might be across the sea, but they were still there. My secrecy only affords them advantage." He smiled. "So, know this. The Shade keeps us plentiful. It's in his guidance that we flourish. You'll not find your answers from me..."
His smile turned into a sneer, practically daring the Mikaelidas son to get his hands dirty.
"You know... I killed your brother..." He told the man, his eyes flashing. "I had to do it silently, so no maids would come running in. No blood either - initially - for doors that seeped crimson have a tendency of being opened." The Creeder offered a full-blown grin across his face. "So, I strangled him." The cultist lifted his chin as if in pride for his efforts. "It was the Creed that killed your brother, true enough, but I was the weapon that handled the assignment... I wrapped my hands around his neck and squeezed... He kicked. He squirmed. By my brothers held down a limb each; there was no way your princely brother was getting up from his back." The Creeder's tongue poked over the edge of his teeth. "Do you know how big the eyes get when you can't breathe...?" His voice turned hushed and echoey in the room. "It never fails to amuse me how all men - no matter how strong or regal - call for their mothers before meeting their end... He could have saved the tears, though."
So. There were still Creed in Egypt. And there was a new leader called Shade. Stephanos didn’t believe for a single second that the original Shade was still alive. This was as he’d suspected - a new cult. With every breath this devout, deluded idiot drew, he was spewing forth secrets whether he meant to or not. Things that could be inferred from the words he did or did not say.
Whatever threats this man made did make Stephanos’s skin crawl in fear the way this man likely intended. He was frowning but it was an attempt to get the man to keep going, rather than to reveal any displeasure. The more this man talked, the more information he was going to get...until the man began talking about Zacharias. The change was such an abrupt one that Stephanos blinked and had to reorient himself in the conversation to attend more carefully.
Stephanos thought back to the letters Xene had found. Of Zacharias’s male lover. Was that how this man had gained entry to a prince of the realm’s personal bedchambers? How he got close enough to a warrior such as Zacharias? Because Stephanos could imagine no other way. He could not imagine that his tall, strong, resilient brother would have fallen prey under fair circumstances to a weasel like this one. This man could not have overthrown the crown prince in a fight of brute strength.
He could barely hear the words coming out of the Creeder’s mouth, but he could see them. Zacharias’s room, his weapons mounted on the walls, his bed. Early morning light casting soft shadows in the corners of the room. Zacharias himself, lying there on his back, struggling with a bit of wire wrapped tightly around his neck. Even as the Creeder asked if Stephanos knew how a person’s eyes buldged while they were being strangled.
He closed his eyes because, yes. He knew. He’d done it. On the battlefield where it was fair and right. Where the soldiers there knew what they may face and chose to be there anyway. He knew that his brother’s face had been red and that veins had bulged out across his neck and forehead. He knew that Zacharias’s skin has changed to a mottled purple and blue, that his lips turned gray and peeled back away from his teeth as he’d struggled, slapping and struggling with his attacker. He knew that Zacharias’s eyes had rolled back in his head, bloodshot and huge and his hands had flapped uselessly until they finally dropped to his sides.
What he could not imagine was his brother gasping for their mother, or crying. He didn’t think anything of the sort had happened. His fists balled up and his teeth clenched. Waves roared in his ears like he was standing in the center of the ocean in the midst of a tidal storm.
Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, he brought up a fist and slammed it straight into the Creeder’s face. The man’s nose broke under his knuckles. He pulled back and socked him again, this time in the mouth. The man’s teeth cut into his knuckles. Blood welled up across the bone but he wanted to break this man’s teeth. So he hit him again. And again. And again. Heedless of the damage he was doing to his own hand.
“Who told you where Zacharias would be,” Stephanos hissed. His breath came in gasps and he could barely speak for the hammering of his heart and the blood roaring in his ears. “Tell me!” he shouted. His voice reverberated off the stone, echoing and loud. It drew a few shadows of the men who’d come with him.
Stephanos’s knife was out of his belt and slicing through the ropes that bound this Creeder to the chair. He ripped the man off it and flung him to the floor, kicking the man in the ribs as he landed. “Speak, you worthless piece of dog shit.”
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So. There were still Creed in Egypt. And there was a new leader called Shade. Stephanos didn’t believe for a single second that the original Shade was still alive. This was as he’d suspected - a new cult. With every breath this devout, deluded idiot drew, he was spewing forth secrets whether he meant to or not. Things that could be inferred from the words he did or did not say.
Whatever threats this man made did make Stephanos’s skin crawl in fear the way this man likely intended. He was frowning but it was an attempt to get the man to keep going, rather than to reveal any displeasure. The more this man talked, the more information he was going to get...until the man began talking about Zacharias. The change was such an abrupt one that Stephanos blinked and had to reorient himself in the conversation to attend more carefully.
Stephanos thought back to the letters Xene had found. Of Zacharias’s male lover. Was that how this man had gained entry to a prince of the realm’s personal bedchambers? How he got close enough to a warrior such as Zacharias? Because Stephanos could imagine no other way. He could not imagine that his tall, strong, resilient brother would have fallen prey under fair circumstances to a weasel like this one. This man could not have overthrown the crown prince in a fight of brute strength.
He could barely hear the words coming out of the Creeder’s mouth, but he could see them. Zacharias’s room, his weapons mounted on the walls, his bed. Early morning light casting soft shadows in the corners of the room. Zacharias himself, lying there on his back, struggling with a bit of wire wrapped tightly around his neck. Even as the Creeder asked if Stephanos knew how a person’s eyes buldged while they were being strangled.
He closed his eyes because, yes. He knew. He’d done it. On the battlefield where it was fair and right. Where the soldiers there knew what they may face and chose to be there anyway. He knew that his brother’s face had been red and that veins had bulged out across his neck and forehead. He knew that Zacharias’s skin has changed to a mottled purple and blue, that his lips turned gray and peeled back away from his teeth as he’d struggled, slapping and struggling with his attacker. He knew that Zacharias’s eyes had rolled back in his head, bloodshot and huge and his hands had flapped uselessly until they finally dropped to his sides.
What he could not imagine was his brother gasping for their mother, or crying. He didn’t think anything of the sort had happened. His fists balled up and his teeth clenched. Waves roared in his ears like he was standing in the center of the ocean in the midst of a tidal storm.
Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, he brought up a fist and slammed it straight into the Creeder’s face. The man’s nose broke under his knuckles. He pulled back and socked him again, this time in the mouth. The man’s teeth cut into his knuckles. Blood welled up across the bone but he wanted to break this man’s teeth. So he hit him again. And again. And again. Heedless of the damage he was doing to his own hand.
“Who told you where Zacharias would be,” Stephanos hissed. His breath came in gasps and he could barely speak for the hammering of his heart and the blood roaring in his ears. “Tell me!” he shouted. His voice reverberated off the stone, echoing and loud. It drew a few shadows of the men who’d come with him.
Stephanos’s knife was out of his belt and slicing through the ropes that bound this Creeder to the chair. He ripped the man off it and flung him to the floor, kicking the man in the ribs as he landed. “Speak, you worthless piece of dog shit.”
So. There were still Creed in Egypt. And there was a new leader called Shade. Stephanos didn’t believe for a single second that the original Shade was still alive. This was as he’d suspected - a new cult. With every breath this devout, deluded idiot drew, he was spewing forth secrets whether he meant to or not. Things that could be inferred from the words he did or did not say.
Whatever threats this man made did make Stephanos’s skin crawl in fear the way this man likely intended. He was frowning but it was an attempt to get the man to keep going, rather than to reveal any displeasure. The more this man talked, the more information he was going to get...until the man began talking about Zacharias. The change was such an abrupt one that Stephanos blinked and had to reorient himself in the conversation to attend more carefully.
Stephanos thought back to the letters Xene had found. Of Zacharias’s male lover. Was that how this man had gained entry to a prince of the realm’s personal bedchambers? How he got close enough to a warrior such as Zacharias? Because Stephanos could imagine no other way. He could not imagine that his tall, strong, resilient brother would have fallen prey under fair circumstances to a weasel like this one. This man could not have overthrown the crown prince in a fight of brute strength.
He could barely hear the words coming out of the Creeder’s mouth, but he could see them. Zacharias’s room, his weapons mounted on the walls, his bed. Early morning light casting soft shadows in the corners of the room. Zacharias himself, lying there on his back, struggling with a bit of wire wrapped tightly around his neck. Even as the Creeder asked if Stephanos knew how a person’s eyes buldged while they were being strangled.
He closed his eyes because, yes. He knew. He’d done it. On the battlefield where it was fair and right. Where the soldiers there knew what they may face and chose to be there anyway. He knew that his brother’s face had been red and that veins had bulged out across his neck and forehead. He knew that Zacharias’s skin has changed to a mottled purple and blue, that his lips turned gray and peeled back away from his teeth as he’d struggled, slapping and struggling with his attacker. He knew that Zacharias’s eyes had rolled back in his head, bloodshot and huge and his hands had flapped uselessly until they finally dropped to his sides.
What he could not imagine was his brother gasping for their mother, or crying. He didn’t think anything of the sort had happened. His fists balled up and his teeth clenched. Waves roared in his ears like he was standing in the center of the ocean in the midst of a tidal storm.
Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, he brought up a fist and slammed it straight into the Creeder’s face. The man’s nose broke under his knuckles. He pulled back and socked him again, this time in the mouth. The man’s teeth cut into his knuckles. Blood welled up across the bone but he wanted to break this man’s teeth. So he hit him again. And again. And again. Heedless of the damage he was doing to his own hand.
“Who told you where Zacharias would be,” Stephanos hissed. His breath came in gasps and he could barely speak for the hammering of his heart and the blood roaring in his ears. “Tell me!” he shouted. His voice reverberated off the stone, echoing and loud. It drew a few shadows of the men who’d come with him.
Stephanos’s knife was out of his belt and slicing through the ropes that bound this Creeder to the chair. He ripped the man off it and flung him to the floor, kicking the man in the ribs as he landed. “Speak, you worthless piece of dog shit.”
The cultist knew the second he truly got to the little king. He could describe his brother's death, he could poke and prod with all the gory details and while the man might hate every second of it and be able to envision every moment, it wasn't until he started talking of Zacharias' whimpering and shows of cowardice that he finally got the spark he had been goading from the second Mikaelidas son.
For, as he had always known, he wasn't getting out of this chamber alive. So why risk spilling secrets with a long and drawn out torture scenario. He just had to make the man angry enough to kill him and out went the lights of his only information source.
And his taunts started the ball rolling nicely.
After that, after the first few punches had been landed and the Creeder felt his nose break and his jaw seem to bounce up against his skull, he knew the simple and easiest way to fuel the rage longer and hotter.
He laughed.
A low chuckle in his chest at first, and then progressing louder through clenched teeth, braced against the king's next impacts. Instead of screaming, crying out, or even offering full moans or oomphs of impact, the drowned one too his opportunity to turn the king ever more wrathful and just continued to laugh at his attempted to threaten and maim.
It worked too.
As he laughed the blows rained down on him, the prince continued to beat into him. His emotions were high, his anger stamped on every feature. When the man withdrew a dagger, the Creeder thought it to soon be over but all the king did was cut him loose and then throw him to the ground.
That had been the chance to run. That would have been his only hope at getting out of the burnt-out dungeon in order to make it back to his brothers. But he did not run. He did not try to get himself up or make for the door or attack the man back. Because there was no reason for him to. His main feeling of identity and belonging in this word was the Creed. And he would not be welcomed back with his face now shown. He was no longer a part of his brotherhood. Which meant he could die here without regret or contention...
So, when the king started in on his ribs and started to kick him, the cultist did nothing to retaliate physically. Instead, he just continued to torment the man with his words; daring him to kick harder and punch stronger. Tempting him to end his life faster.
"I can't believe the King of all Taengea is so gentle to the touch..." "All this over dead familial cargo..." "I almost felt that one - keep trying Little King."
And between all of them, the incessant laughter that would send anyone into hysterics.
By the time the beatings slowed, the Creeder coughed enough to then spew bright crimson; a splatter that shot across the floor and told him all he needed to know about how close he was to his own demise. He rolled back onto his back, his arms coming up to hover over his chest, his belly shuddering with laughter that caught in his throat and turned to choking sounds. He grinned up at his murderer with teeth stained bright scarlet, blood oozing over his lips. One of his eyes was flooded with the same crimson, the other starting to swell. He might not have been able to see all too clearly but he could see well enough.
"Poor little King..." The Creeder taunted, coughing on his own lifeblood. "Not even safe within his own House..." And with one final grin of delight that the man would likely panic over whether he meant nobility or the physical building the man lived in; or if it made a difference, or if it was truth at all... Safe in the knowledge that he taunted the man to his last... the cultist of no name suddenly stopped the rattling draw of breath and coughing exhale of air and fell deathly still, his hands falling to the floor either side of his corpse and his eyes staring soullessly at the blackened ceiling of his burnt out dungeon grave.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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The cultist knew the second he truly got to the little king. He could describe his brother's death, he could poke and prod with all the gory details and while the man might hate every second of it and be able to envision every moment, it wasn't until he started talking of Zacharias' whimpering and shows of cowardice that he finally got the spark he had been goading from the second Mikaelidas son.
For, as he had always known, he wasn't getting out of this chamber alive. So why risk spilling secrets with a long and drawn out torture scenario. He just had to make the man angry enough to kill him and out went the lights of his only information source.
And his taunts started the ball rolling nicely.
After that, after the first few punches had been landed and the Creeder felt his nose break and his jaw seem to bounce up against his skull, he knew the simple and easiest way to fuel the rage longer and hotter.
He laughed.
A low chuckle in his chest at first, and then progressing louder through clenched teeth, braced against the king's next impacts. Instead of screaming, crying out, or even offering full moans or oomphs of impact, the drowned one too his opportunity to turn the king ever more wrathful and just continued to laugh at his attempted to threaten and maim.
It worked too.
As he laughed the blows rained down on him, the prince continued to beat into him. His emotions were high, his anger stamped on every feature. When the man withdrew a dagger, the Creeder thought it to soon be over but all the king did was cut him loose and then throw him to the ground.
That had been the chance to run. That would have been his only hope at getting out of the burnt-out dungeon in order to make it back to his brothers. But he did not run. He did not try to get himself up or make for the door or attack the man back. Because there was no reason for him to. His main feeling of identity and belonging in this word was the Creed. And he would not be welcomed back with his face now shown. He was no longer a part of his brotherhood. Which meant he could die here without regret or contention...
So, when the king started in on his ribs and started to kick him, the cultist did nothing to retaliate physically. Instead, he just continued to torment the man with his words; daring him to kick harder and punch stronger. Tempting him to end his life faster.
"I can't believe the King of all Taengea is so gentle to the touch..." "All this over dead familial cargo..." "I almost felt that one - keep trying Little King."
And between all of them, the incessant laughter that would send anyone into hysterics.
By the time the beatings slowed, the Creeder coughed enough to then spew bright crimson; a splatter that shot across the floor and told him all he needed to know about how close he was to his own demise. He rolled back onto his back, his arms coming up to hover over his chest, his belly shuddering with laughter that caught in his throat and turned to choking sounds. He grinned up at his murderer with teeth stained bright scarlet, blood oozing over his lips. One of his eyes was flooded with the same crimson, the other starting to swell. He might not have been able to see all too clearly but he could see well enough.
"Poor little King..." The Creeder taunted, coughing on his own lifeblood. "Not even safe within his own House..." And with one final grin of delight that the man would likely panic over whether he meant nobility or the physical building the man lived in; or if it made a difference, or if it was truth at all... Safe in the knowledge that he taunted the man to his last... the cultist of no name suddenly stopped the rattling draw of breath and coughing exhale of air and fell deathly still, his hands falling to the floor either side of his corpse and his eyes staring soullessly at the blackened ceiling of his burnt out dungeon grave.
The cultist knew the second he truly got to the little king. He could describe his brother's death, he could poke and prod with all the gory details and while the man might hate every second of it and be able to envision every moment, it wasn't until he started talking of Zacharias' whimpering and shows of cowardice that he finally got the spark he had been goading from the second Mikaelidas son.
For, as he had always known, he wasn't getting out of this chamber alive. So why risk spilling secrets with a long and drawn out torture scenario. He just had to make the man angry enough to kill him and out went the lights of his only information source.
And his taunts started the ball rolling nicely.
After that, after the first few punches had been landed and the Creeder felt his nose break and his jaw seem to bounce up against his skull, he knew the simple and easiest way to fuel the rage longer and hotter.
He laughed.
A low chuckle in his chest at first, and then progressing louder through clenched teeth, braced against the king's next impacts. Instead of screaming, crying out, or even offering full moans or oomphs of impact, the drowned one too his opportunity to turn the king ever more wrathful and just continued to laugh at his attempted to threaten and maim.
It worked too.
As he laughed the blows rained down on him, the prince continued to beat into him. His emotions were high, his anger stamped on every feature. When the man withdrew a dagger, the Creeder thought it to soon be over but all the king did was cut him loose and then throw him to the ground.
That had been the chance to run. That would have been his only hope at getting out of the burnt-out dungeon in order to make it back to his brothers. But he did not run. He did not try to get himself up or make for the door or attack the man back. Because there was no reason for him to. His main feeling of identity and belonging in this word was the Creed. And he would not be welcomed back with his face now shown. He was no longer a part of his brotherhood. Which meant he could die here without regret or contention...
So, when the king started in on his ribs and started to kick him, the cultist did nothing to retaliate physically. Instead, he just continued to torment the man with his words; daring him to kick harder and punch stronger. Tempting him to end his life faster.
"I can't believe the King of all Taengea is so gentle to the touch..." "All this over dead familial cargo..." "I almost felt that one - keep trying Little King."
And between all of them, the incessant laughter that would send anyone into hysterics.
By the time the beatings slowed, the Creeder coughed enough to then spew bright crimson; a splatter that shot across the floor and told him all he needed to know about how close he was to his own demise. He rolled back onto his back, his arms coming up to hover over his chest, his belly shuddering with laughter that caught in his throat and turned to choking sounds. He grinned up at his murderer with teeth stained bright scarlet, blood oozing over his lips. One of his eyes was flooded with the same crimson, the other starting to swell. He might not have been able to see all too clearly but he could see well enough.
"Poor little King..." The Creeder taunted, coughing on his own lifeblood. "Not even safe within his own House..." And with one final grin of delight that the man would likely panic over whether he meant nobility or the physical building the man lived in; or if it made a difference, or if it was truth at all... Safe in the knowledge that he taunted the man to his last... the cultist of no name suddenly stopped the rattling draw of breath and coughing exhale of air and fell deathly still, his hands falling to the floor either side of his corpse and his eyes staring soullessly at the blackened ceiling of his burnt out dungeon grave.
The words that the Creed tried to speak between the punches that Stephanos pounded into the man’s face were difficult to understand. It was the laughter that drove him to it. He’d meant to be restrained - to do as Vangelis had advised. Get the leader to talk, act on the information. That was the best course of action, and intellectually, he agreed with this.
The calm, rational part of Stephanos was in total alignment with this plan. It would afford him a clearer insight into the cult, he could potentially get a witness testimony that Irakles was, in fact, part of the plan as he’d been suspecting and, by his uncle’s own smiled admission, knowing the whole time. This Creed wasn’t for himself but for everyone else to believe him.
And yet…
It wasn’t Stephanos’s rational side that was dealing with the deluded, insane waste of a human being. This was the darker, crueler person that resides in every man, woman, and child, just waiting for an opportunity to be released. He had listened to the siren song of revenge for too many nights. The gates to his anger were unlocked and the demon inside Stephanos slithered out, taking over his actions from the second that the Creed laughed in his face.
Laughed at the taking of human life. Laughed at murdering a good and damn near perfect man like Zacharias. Someone who would have been a splendid king. Someone who was an immutable friend. A brother. A loved and respected prince.
He couldn’t hear the Creeder laughing and braying him on. His mind had gone quiet in remembrance of his brother’s face and he was in a trancelike state as he near calmly beat the Creed leader to death. Three soldiers gathered at the door, blocking the light. They could not see the king but they could hear the wet smack of his fist slamming against the bloodied mass of what used to be a face. They heard the crack of teeth breaking, of the delicate bones in the face folded in on themselves, and all the while the forced, insane laughter of the Creed pinging eerily around the room. It made their skin crawl. If not for the unholy stench of blood and shit and piss, they might have wondered if the king was beating some evil thing from the underworld.
Stephanos kept going until the man stopped moving. He ignored the stinging in his hand, the likely break in one of his own fingers. It wasn’t until strong arms hauled him up from behind, a guard on either side, that he blinked and came back to himself. “Your majesty,” one of the guards hissed at him. “He is dead.”
The king shook off the guards and drew in a shuddering breath. He glared down at the useless corpse on the floor. Not only was his source of information gone, they wouldn’t even be able to have anyone come identify him. The man’s face was barely humanoid anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to care, even though he knew he should. If this was his brother’s murderer, the real one, he wished he’d been able to hurt this man more than he had.
Perhaps it was a cruel joke of the gods but even though he’d quite literally beaten Zacharias’s murderer to death, had taken vengeance on those who’d harmed him and his family, he felt hollow. There was no satisfaction at all. He could have bathed in the man’s blood and it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy what he really wanted; he wanted his father and brother back. This was not possible.
“What did he mean by ‘Not safe in your own house’?” the second guard asked. He was an Order member and had served with Stephanos during his time in the Order of Vasiliadon. Before Stephanos had quit to become king.
“What?” Stephanos was looking down at the bloody mess of skin and exposed knuckle bones in his hand. This would scar. Badly.
“His last words were that you’re not safe in your own house…” The guard was genuinely concerned for the king. Stephanos’s face darkened.
“He’s talking about Prince Irakles,” he said. He was done trying to hide his thoughts on his uncle. If Irakles could tarnish his reputation, then he could do the same in return.
The guards looked uncomfortable with that statement but didn’t presume to correct the king. Instead, they offered to escort the king back to the palati and to remain there but Stephanos waved them off. Irakles was waiting for something, but he wasn’t sure what or why. Just that, for now at least, he was safe enough. Perhaps the birth of his son...or….some other large event where he could feasibly die without suspicion.
It was with those thoughts that Stephanos walked out of the room, leaving the corpse on the floor to rot. He was not interested in burying or performing rites for that lunatic. If the body rotted and was not given a proper burial, then he would not enter Hades and would be stuck on the side of the river Styx. Which was exactly where Stephanos wanted him to be. Forever waiting and never entering the afterlife. A fitting end to a repugnant human being.
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The words that the Creed tried to speak between the punches that Stephanos pounded into the man’s face were difficult to understand. It was the laughter that drove him to it. He’d meant to be restrained - to do as Vangelis had advised. Get the leader to talk, act on the information. That was the best course of action, and intellectually, he agreed with this.
The calm, rational part of Stephanos was in total alignment with this plan. It would afford him a clearer insight into the cult, he could potentially get a witness testimony that Irakles was, in fact, part of the plan as he’d been suspecting and, by his uncle’s own smiled admission, knowing the whole time. This Creed wasn’t for himself but for everyone else to believe him.
And yet…
It wasn’t Stephanos’s rational side that was dealing with the deluded, insane waste of a human being. This was the darker, crueler person that resides in every man, woman, and child, just waiting for an opportunity to be released. He had listened to the siren song of revenge for too many nights. The gates to his anger were unlocked and the demon inside Stephanos slithered out, taking over his actions from the second that the Creed laughed in his face.
Laughed at the taking of human life. Laughed at murdering a good and damn near perfect man like Zacharias. Someone who would have been a splendid king. Someone who was an immutable friend. A brother. A loved and respected prince.
He couldn’t hear the Creeder laughing and braying him on. His mind had gone quiet in remembrance of his brother’s face and he was in a trancelike state as he near calmly beat the Creed leader to death. Three soldiers gathered at the door, blocking the light. They could not see the king but they could hear the wet smack of his fist slamming against the bloodied mass of what used to be a face. They heard the crack of teeth breaking, of the delicate bones in the face folded in on themselves, and all the while the forced, insane laughter of the Creed pinging eerily around the room. It made their skin crawl. If not for the unholy stench of blood and shit and piss, they might have wondered if the king was beating some evil thing from the underworld.
Stephanos kept going until the man stopped moving. He ignored the stinging in his hand, the likely break in one of his own fingers. It wasn’t until strong arms hauled him up from behind, a guard on either side, that he blinked and came back to himself. “Your majesty,” one of the guards hissed at him. “He is dead.”
The king shook off the guards and drew in a shuddering breath. He glared down at the useless corpse on the floor. Not only was his source of information gone, they wouldn’t even be able to have anyone come identify him. The man’s face was barely humanoid anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to care, even though he knew he should. If this was his brother’s murderer, the real one, he wished he’d been able to hurt this man more than he had.
Perhaps it was a cruel joke of the gods but even though he’d quite literally beaten Zacharias’s murderer to death, had taken vengeance on those who’d harmed him and his family, he felt hollow. There was no satisfaction at all. He could have bathed in the man’s blood and it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy what he really wanted; he wanted his father and brother back. This was not possible.
“What did he mean by ‘Not safe in your own house’?” the second guard asked. He was an Order member and had served with Stephanos during his time in the Order of Vasiliadon. Before Stephanos had quit to become king.
“What?” Stephanos was looking down at the bloody mess of skin and exposed knuckle bones in his hand. This would scar. Badly.
“His last words were that you’re not safe in your own house…” The guard was genuinely concerned for the king. Stephanos’s face darkened.
“He’s talking about Prince Irakles,” he said. He was done trying to hide his thoughts on his uncle. If Irakles could tarnish his reputation, then he could do the same in return.
The guards looked uncomfortable with that statement but didn’t presume to correct the king. Instead, they offered to escort the king back to the palati and to remain there but Stephanos waved them off. Irakles was waiting for something, but he wasn’t sure what or why. Just that, for now at least, he was safe enough. Perhaps the birth of his son...or….some other large event where he could feasibly die without suspicion.
It was with those thoughts that Stephanos walked out of the room, leaving the corpse on the floor to rot. He was not interested in burying or performing rites for that lunatic. If the body rotted and was not given a proper burial, then he would not enter Hades and would be stuck on the side of the river Styx. Which was exactly where Stephanos wanted him to be. Forever waiting and never entering the afterlife. A fitting end to a repugnant human being.
The words that the Creed tried to speak between the punches that Stephanos pounded into the man’s face were difficult to understand. It was the laughter that drove him to it. He’d meant to be restrained - to do as Vangelis had advised. Get the leader to talk, act on the information. That was the best course of action, and intellectually, he agreed with this.
The calm, rational part of Stephanos was in total alignment with this plan. It would afford him a clearer insight into the cult, he could potentially get a witness testimony that Irakles was, in fact, part of the plan as he’d been suspecting and, by his uncle’s own smiled admission, knowing the whole time. This Creed wasn’t for himself but for everyone else to believe him.
And yet…
It wasn’t Stephanos’s rational side that was dealing with the deluded, insane waste of a human being. This was the darker, crueler person that resides in every man, woman, and child, just waiting for an opportunity to be released. He had listened to the siren song of revenge for too many nights. The gates to his anger were unlocked and the demon inside Stephanos slithered out, taking over his actions from the second that the Creed laughed in his face.
Laughed at the taking of human life. Laughed at murdering a good and damn near perfect man like Zacharias. Someone who would have been a splendid king. Someone who was an immutable friend. A brother. A loved and respected prince.
He couldn’t hear the Creeder laughing and braying him on. His mind had gone quiet in remembrance of his brother’s face and he was in a trancelike state as he near calmly beat the Creed leader to death. Three soldiers gathered at the door, blocking the light. They could not see the king but they could hear the wet smack of his fist slamming against the bloodied mass of what used to be a face. They heard the crack of teeth breaking, of the delicate bones in the face folded in on themselves, and all the while the forced, insane laughter of the Creed pinging eerily around the room. It made their skin crawl. If not for the unholy stench of blood and shit and piss, they might have wondered if the king was beating some evil thing from the underworld.
Stephanos kept going until the man stopped moving. He ignored the stinging in his hand, the likely break in one of his own fingers. It wasn’t until strong arms hauled him up from behind, a guard on either side, that he blinked and came back to himself. “Your majesty,” one of the guards hissed at him. “He is dead.”
The king shook off the guards and drew in a shuddering breath. He glared down at the useless corpse on the floor. Not only was his source of information gone, they wouldn’t even be able to have anyone come identify him. The man’s face was barely humanoid anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to care, even though he knew he should. If this was his brother’s murderer, the real one, he wished he’d been able to hurt this man more than he had.
Perhaps it was a cruel joke of the gods but even though he’d quite literally beaten Zacharias’s murderer to death, had taken vengeance on those who’d harmed him and his family, he felt hollow. There was no satisfaction at all. He could have bathed in the man’s blood and it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy what he really wanted; he wanted his father and brother back. This was not possible.
“What did he mean by ‘Not safe in your own house’?” the second guard asked. He was an Order member and had served with Stephanos during his time in the Order of Vasiliadon. Before Stephanos had quit to become king.
“What?” Stephanos was looking down at the bloody mess of skin and exposed knuckle bones in his hand. This would scar. Badly.
“His last words were that you’re not safe in your own house…” The guard was genuinely concerned for the king. Stephanos’s face darkened.
“He’s talking about Prince Irakles,” he said. He was done trying to hide his thoughts on his uncle. If Irakles could tarnish his reputation, then he could do the same in return.
The guards looked uncomfortable with that statement but didn’t presume to correct the king. Instead, they offered to escort the king back to the palati and to remain there but Stephanos waved them off. Irakles was waiting for something, but he wasn’t sure what or why. Just that, for now at least, he was safe enough. Perhaps the birth of his son...or….some other large event where he could feasibly die without suspicion.
It was with those thoughts that Stephanos walked out of the room, leaving the corpse on the floor to rot. He was not interested in burying or performing rites for that lunatic. If the body rotted and was not given a proper burial, then he would not enter Hades and would be stuck on the side of the river Styx. Which was exactly where Stephanos wanted him to be. Forever waiting and never entering the afterlife. A fitting end to a repugnant human being.
