RAINNNN!
And then there was RAIN. Lots of it! More like a spring storm than a winter one.
So I went and bought a nice untrimmed tri-tip, floured it and seared it, it's now stewing in beef stock and basalmic vinegar. Eventually it will have onions, potatoes, turnips, garlic and carrots keeping it company.
Now if I could just get the smoke out of here...
More? Yup!
Prince Falcone idly buffed at his nails while in an insolent lean to the wall of the elegant smoking room. He scarce seemed to notice the fist fighting knot of his peers crashing through over the fine furniture, knocking aside priceless decanters of even more priceless vintages, scattering cigars and pipes alike in their wake.
The ever cheerful palace staff broke up the fight, clearing away the wreckage and replacing it with fresh bottles, chairs, and such. The mild injuries were cleaned and bandaged, the ruffled egos of the young men soothed.
Really, it was past creepy, how efficient the staff was in the Celestial Palace, Falcone decided, quirking a brow as a butler relieved him of the nail buff to take over the work himself. Shrugging, Falcone simply allowed the man to finish polishing his nails and nodded when he moved on.
A far better job than he had been doing, Falcone decided, admiring the shine before taking a glass of wine from another butler. As the staff seemed to vanish from the room, Falcone smirked at the other youths sitting sullenly in the aftermath of the fight.
“You're all idiots, you know,” Falcone informed them with a thin smile, “You think you're going to win the princess's hand by standing around like lovely little man-dolls.”
“And just what is it that you think will do that, Falcone?” Ereson demanded, nursing a bag of ice to his eye.
“First of all, it might help if you actually observed her and discovered what she likes,” Falcone pointed out, “Which is none of us.”
There was a shocked silence before a tall red head sprang to his feet, outraged.
“Really, Falcone, you may be nearly a bitter old man, but we are all quite young and handsome, I daresay none are more handsome than I...”
Falcone smiled benignly over the argument of which of them was the youngest and most beautiful. He held up a hand.
“She finds none of us attractive or interesting, no matter what our age. Why? Because none of you idiots have listened to all those lovely songs about her parents.”
“And just why are you being so kind as to tell us this?” the red head sneered. Falcone smirked.
“I'm not a greedy man. My sister holds the throne to my kingdom, and that's fine by me. Thus I could become emperor if I could gain Aralyne's hand and heart, or I could be trusted council to the lucky young man I aided into that enviable position.”
“As if anyone would trust you,” Danan snapped, but he was clearly thoughtful. Falcone was by some five years the senior of the young princes's staying at the palace. He was a late arrival, having shown up well after Aralyne's eighteenth birthday.
Aralyne had been known to talk to him, as well. Which was far more than most of the young men had gained.
“While you boys were scuffling like street urchins around her on her last ride, I was actually listening to what she was saying. What she was saying is the key to winning her hand,” Falcone offered lazily, “She's a nice girl, but frankly, she's dull. Duchess Rynna is far more intriguing in my eyes...”
Falcone trailed off as the others all but sprang to their feet to protest Falcone's speaking so meanly of the princess. He smiled, wry, as they inadvertently proved his point.
“You all find her so entrancing, then perhaps you may want to actually find a way to win her hand that doesn't involve you all causing collateral damage to the palace you so desperately want to call your own,” Falcone murmured, his voice a warm rippling of humor. He finished off his wine in a single drink, and, saluting the others, sauntered from the chamber.
It wouldn't take all that long, Falcone decided. They couldn't all be idiots. Or complete idiots, anyhow. Falcone continued on to his room, smiling faintly as he heard three of the prince's scuffling over who would follow.
He didn't care if all three burst in. It would improve his odds. Titles and empresses were empty, but having the power - that was far more than any beautiful but boring girl and a throne that demanded far too much in the way of propriety.
Falcone kissed his fingertip and pressed that to the brow of the painting of his sister. Clever woman, she knew how to bring their family from the ashes of a fallen kingdom and put them into power. She used those resources to make sure her beloved baby brother had an even better chance.
“And just what is this great plan of yours, Falcone?” Ereson demanded, shouldering into the mans suite with Danan and Werebit pushing at his side.
“It's very simple, lads. Haven't you ever heard of Windlass Gate?” Falcone smiled, thin and cold.
General Hakkabi sat, a massif in repose, at the large map table, staring at a small horse and rider statuette placed directly on the long disused road between the Empire Celestial and Windlass Gate. His clawed fingers ticked lightly against each other as he considered.
Nothing from the Empire could be considered harmless or routine. His mistrust of the people was deeply ingrained, scarred into his soul by their warriors and madness. He glanced up with a grunt, straightening for a moment, as Sheldon joined him.
“Report,” Sheldon noted simply as he poured them both mugs of coffee.
“Sighted last night, a patrol of ten riders. All bearing the standard of Keolf's Helm, one of the sub-kingdoms within the Empire. Moving light, this seems to be a cavalry detachment rather than knights.”
“Seeking a way out of the Empire, we have seen that in the past,” Sheldon mulled, and Hakkabi quirked up a brow, glancing to the man.
“We have?”
“We, of the city above, yes. The last two rules were weak. That's why so many kingdoms were outside of the boundaries when the current emperor rode out to remake them,” Sheldon nodded. Hakkabi tilted his head.
“Just how long do you people up above live, anyhow?” he inquired skeptically, “Your daughter ages as my nephew does.”
“A long while. But we do grow up fairly like yours. My daughter says your nephew is a butthead and thinks the world of him.”
“He is a shame to the family, constantly studying,” Hakkabi sniffed. Sheldon eyed the general.
“Whom you give a gold piece to for each high mark he receives in class.”
“I am not his foolish parents, and your daughter talks too much,” the general responded, arrogance fading in a soft chuff of laughter, “The rule of the current emperor seems yet strong. Is there else that could bring these riders from the empire?”
“Could be anything, including finally getting back to the emperor's original idea of subjugating Windlass Gate. I think we should assume this it the intention,” Sheldon decided, tilting his head.
“There was a time when you seemed to want them to do this. To want to dare them to do this. Why?” Hakkabi queried, leaning back to take a deep drink of the coffee, all the while inspecting Sheldon.
A nearly impossible face to read. Sheldon may as well have his cowl over his face even when it was not. He was a still, calm, man, who seemed only to come alive when his daughter was at hand.
“It would have put the higher ranking officers in our reach, perhaps even the emperor, who was said to always lead the charges. Finding out what on earth goes through their minds would go far in finally finding a way to break them out of their eternal entropy,” Sheldon explained, “These men may provide some answers, but better to regard them as a potential threat.”
“Tell me, Warlord, how well does it sit with your council on high that you have become so much more a man of Windlass Gate than you were of the Forbidden City?” Hakkabi inquired, a shrewd study leveled on Sheldon.
Surprisingly, Sheldon abruptly grinned and laughed once.
“Not as poorly as you might imagine. They were aware that I become fond of and attached to the damndest things.”
“Like this little community of primitive bugs.”
“Would you believe me if I told you that this community and those we have populated from here are considered to be far more promising than even our own?” Sheldon asked, tilting his head faintly.
“No. Your people are nearly gods, we are mere men and women.”
“We have gods, too.”
“That pleases me. I still cannot see how you may see us as anything but lesser creatures which you have some scientific interest in keeping alive,” Hakkabi admitted, leaning back in his chair, almost in a relaxed pose.
“I raise my daughter here, when I could have returned many times,” Sheldon pointed out, lifting a brow. Hakkabi held up a taloned finger to counter.
“You have not selected a woman, either. And there are many who would gladly stand at your side.”
It was a nearly alarming moment to see Sheldon's face burn scarlet, the surprise so clearly stamped across his features, the fumbling with the mug. Hakkabi's brows rose as he observed this.
“Or, as my mother often scolded me, sometimes the most simple of explanations is the true one,” Hakkabi noted dryly, “I would think you would be more able among the fairer sex.”
“Hakkabi, I can't even tell you how the hell I ended up with a daughter,” Sheldon admitted, a hand over his face.
“I cannot help you at all if you are that unlearned,” Hakkabi noted, all too droll and dry. Sheldon shot him a sourly amused glare.
“You know what I mean. I've never done well with women. I either start stammering and blushing and acting a fool or escape with all possible speed.”
“Some women like that in a man,” Hakkabi pointed out.
“Yes, the sort that swing in like harpies, grab them by the testicles and swing them around a few times for sport because the poor fools aren't able enough to see what those women really are,” Sheldon snapped irritably, reaching for the coffee pot once more. Hakkabi nodded, slow and sage.
“A very bad divorce.”
“Incredibly. I didn't even know there was a child until my lawyers assistant dropped her off with me.”
“Not all women are so. You should have a wife. You're a good parent, a good warlord,” Hakkabi informed him, almost sternly. Sheldon rolled his eyes, exhaling as he poured out the brew.
“Said the single warrior man.”
“Different culture.”
“You lie so badly. You're probably worse than I am with women,” Sheldon accused, but Hakkabi laughed with a wave of hand.
“No, no, I prefer males. I'll contract sometime with a pair of females for children some day, but without a steady partner, it makes for an uneven coupling.”
“Oh. It sounds easier,” Sheldon decided, considering the dynamics. Hakkabi shook his head, rumbling laughter.
“Not a bit, actually. I am still a headstrong, solitary, independent man deeply settled in my ways. I don't care for youth or beauty, nor feminine ways, weakness disgusts me, and those of my age and bearing are mostly claimed or simply too set in their own ways.”
“So we're settled, old bachelors, then,” Sheldon nodded firmly, avoiding looking at the general.
“Oh, no no. You're a young man yet, and your daughter is of an age to need a mother's advice more than yours. Unless you believe yourself capable of advising her throughout that,” Hakkabi smirked, raising his brow and watching the other closely.
“...I have my mother...”
“If you can get along with your mother and daughter, you can deal with a wife,” Hakkabi declared, rising to his feet and finishing his coffee, “Now, I will return to my quarters. Scouts are set out to watch the riders from the Empire, they will bring word at any changes. Good evening.”
Sheldon glared at the general as he marched from the room, and finally muttered, rubbing his temples.
“Bad enough I have to listen to my family bitch about this, now my own blasted general wants to play matchmaker,” Sheldon griped as he finished his coffee.
“Windlass Gate,” Prince Werebit announced with a toss of his red hair and a quick assessment of his appearance on his fine white stallion. Not there was much of an audience, not like when he had ridden out. The road leaving the Shining Star City had been lined with cheering crowds. The emperor himself had bid a benign farewell and wished him luck upon his quest to contact Windlass Gate.
The tower of the warlord loomed over the city, and seemed occupied. Banners and flags flew from turrets, tapestries hung over balconies. People could be seen moving about.
Troops drilled in a wide yard before the city. A tall, fortified wall surrounded the outmost farmlands, running to join with the mountains clasping the city. Werebit shifted in his saddle.
“Demons,” one of the prince's men hissed as they came ever closer. Werebit reined in his horse sharply, his face white.
“Demons?”
“The troops. Half of them are demons!” the man blurted out. Werebit debated his options as he realized that it was so, among the humans were as many tall, muscular, horned demons.
“This must be the doing of the warlord. He must be cast down,” Werebit decided, his voice trembling despite himself, “He has summoned those abominations from the pits of hell.”
“We must turn back and tell the emperor of this, that he can send a proper troop,” Werebit's aid decided, and Werebit nodded, wide eyed. Getting as far away from the city and back to the safety of the empire was obviously the proper course.
Before any of the men could so much as turn their horses, they found themselves surrounded by archers all but melting from the roadside.
“Surrender,” General Hakkabi boomed, riding out on a massive black animal that seemed half lion and half dragon.
Prince Werebit fainted in the saddle. The riders with him seemed in little better shape. Hakkabi lifted a brow slowly. Perhaps what Sheldon had said, about not granting the people of the empire mystic powers, was true.
It was a vast, red stained throne room, smelling of ancient corruption, that Werebit found himself awakening in. He slowly pushed himself to sit, trying to take stock of his position.
Seated on the throne, cowled in black, the warlord seemed to watch the young man. He was unearthly still, silent, without even a random glitter of eye under the cowl to give evidence of life.
“Welcome to my humble abode, young prince,” Sheldon noted, his voice quiet and penetrating, “We have not entertained those of the Empire Celestial in many years. Do explain what has brought you to our poor gates.”
“Fiend! Demon! You bring evil to the world, you only bide your time to attack the blessed empire!” Werebit blurted out, scrambling to his feet and glaring at the cowled man.
“Then you are admitting to spying upon us in the emperor's name?” Sheldon queried, lightly drumming his fingertips on the arm of the throne. Werebit faltered, trying to backtrack over his own words in confusion.
“No! Why would the Empire spy? Spies are beneath us. We are proud and honorable people with nothing to hide!”
“Then why are you here?” Sheldon pressed, his voice intensifying. Werebit shuddered faintly. There was a palpable power to that quiet and deep voice.
“I came with good intentions, to negotiate a binding between Windlass Gate and the Empire, that Windlass Gate might enjoy the same privileges as any of the fair kingdoms within her arms.”
“The same privileges. To surrender unreasonably high taxes, to stagnate and stratify the people into unbreakable castes, to lobotomize the minds of our children that they would never arise above what has been ordained by some fool on a golden throne,” Sheldon sneered, his voice purring and sleek, “To suffer the implacable boot of that old fool upon our necks. I think not.”
“The privileges of peace and prosperity,” Werebit snapped, blinking several times at the take the warlord had on the empire, “And you are a fine one to speak poorly of the Empire, you who have even summoned demons to enslave the population here!”
“It was necessary that I have warriors that could protect this valuable piece of property from that psychotic madman,” Sheldon countered, almost sweetly, “There is no diplomat of the empire that is not an envoy of war. Shall I write that in fire upon your corpse before I send it burning back to the boundaries of your empire of slaves?”
Werebit's face went absolutely white.
“I came to offer peace!” he yelped, his voice breaking.
“We shall see,” Sheldon snarled, raising to his feet and extending a finger towards the young man. Werebit squealed like a rabbit in a snare as a bolt of red hued energy leapt from Sheldon's hand to strike the prince in the chest.
As Werebit collapsed, Sheldon idly shook his hand, as if to rid it of any residual power clinging to it. Hakkabi nodded in dour approval.
“I thought the title of magus was honorary.”
“No, I earned it fairly. But the first thing you learn is not to fling it about like an ale brewers apprentice. What do you think of young Prince Werebit?”
“I think he's a moron who was somehow tricked into coming here,” Hakkabi decided, strolling closer to Werebit, “He had not studied at all on what records there must be of Windlass Gate.”
“If there are such records,” Sheldon mulled, “Why send a little prince such as this at all? Why not a diplomat? Perhaps to get rid of him in court, but they pride themselves on not having petty jealousies and such.”
“He is an untried and untrained youth. A few days in the sort of dungeon as he must believe we have will have him telling us his entire sad tale,” Hakkabi offered with a shrug, toeing at the young man.
It seemed incredible that this was one of the very people he feared and hated his entire adult life.
“Horrible, filthy, damp, dank, rat and roach infested? Do you have any idea what the maid staff would do to me if I introduced that into their nice, clean tower?” Sheldon inquired dryly, “Or any idea of how many of those rats and roaches my daughter would make into pets?”
“Can you make him believe that he is being held in such a place?” the general tried, nodding dourly over Sheldon's response.
“Yes, but I have better uses for my energies. We could have him held in a guest suite, and he will insist upon seeing the rats, roaches, and general filth, I think, with as shaken as he is now. I doubt much he has any of the emperor's blood in him, but I still think I will take samples from he and his troop. At least begin to form a genetic profile upon them,” Sheldon mulled, gesturing to a pair of guards.
“I am pleased to not understand what you have just said,” Hakkabi decided.
“Your nephew Hassid will explain. Take the prince to the infirmary, and his men. Have them sedated. I'll be in shortly to run my tests,” Sheldon ordered, a flickering of humor to his tone.
As Sheldon slid the heavy black robe from his shoulders, the door to his suite opened. He glanced back, trying to brush out his clothing, and smiled to see his mother. That smile quickly faded, however, at her concerned expression.
“Mother? Where's Violet?” he asked, his tone going abruptly sharp and uneasy. She smiled quickly, moving to kiss his cheek and brush at his lapels.
“She's fine, I had her taken to her room, she fell asleep on the transport.”
“Oh,” Sheldon responded, sagging somewhat in relief before he quickly eluded his mother and headed for the girls room to see for himself. Mavelle followed with a rued smile.
“She's fine, Sheldon,” she chided, lowering her voice. She watched fondly, however, as he ignored her and walked to look Violet over, intent and terse. He finally bent over to kiss her brow and cover her gently.
“What's the matter, then?” Sheldon asked, padding from the girl's bedroom, “It's good you're here, you can decide what tests to run on a batch of Empire Celestial citizens to begin creating a database on them.”
“Oh. Yes, of course,” Mavelle agreed, following as he led her through the tower, “Sheldon, there was a bit of a ...well. Violet was out picking blueberries, and she got lost.”
“And?” he asked, frowning.
“She ended up right on the Winnibel's front lot,” Mavelle explained with a wince as the mere mention of the name caused Sheldon snarl violently.
“Winnibel?!” he hissed, wide eyed. Mavelle nodded, reaching up to try and sooth her son.
“Yes. But...”
“How in the hell could she end up there, it's miles from the berries,” he demanded, furious.
“I know, I know...”
“I don't want her anywhere near those people! How could she... Damn it all, I know, she got lost, but …”
“Sheldon, it's all right. She's fine. I just wanted to let you know because Mrs. Winnibel is as unpleasant and mean as ever, and I know she harped on how wicked girls are to Violet. I explained that to Violet, but she's at that age,” Mavelle reassured him gently, taking one of his hands to pet.
Sheldon startled faintly, his brows knitting.
“Age? What age? What that age?” he asked sharply.
“That age, sweet heart, almost into puberty. Sensitive and emotional. We ended up taking you out of school at that age because you were just too fragile for it,” she reminded him.
“I almost wish you hadn't. There's a lot I never learned,” Sheldon grumbled, squeezing her hand before leading her to the infirmary.
“Calculated risk, sweet. And you can still learn it. It was better to get you away from all that and let you be yourself than to try and force you through it,” Mavelle chuckled softly, “You just were not and are not your older brothers.”
“I know, I know,” he responded with a soft and dry humor. His mother frowned as she looked over Werebit and his fellows.
“These are from the empire?”
“Well. One's a prince, the others seem to be his footmen or something. None seem to have any real training in diplomacy or even fighting.”
“They look more like a lot of skinny boys.”
“They do, at that. We've seen their warriors, they're much bigger. I believe they breed castes.”
“That would answer quite a bit of what we know already,” Mavelle nodded, finding a lab coat and pulling it on, “Well, let's get started. I wonder if we could restore them to a normally developing state...”
“Don't get too fancy, Mom. We need to send them home eventually, and they can't do that if they aren't Empire any longer. They'd wonder what the fuss was and just take up work here,” Sheldon cautioned, somewhat amused.
It nagged at him, however. He wanted to wake Violet then and there and make sure she didn't pay a bit of attention to Mrs. Winnibel. He wanted to grab the transport and return home to give the woman a piece of his mind.
He had work.
So I went and bought a nice untrimmed tri-tip, floured it and seared it, it's now stewing in beef stock and basalmic vinegar. Eventually it will have onions, potatoes, turnips, garlic and carrots keeping it company.
Now if I could just get the smoke out of here...
More? Yup!
Prince Falcone idly buffed at his nails while in an insolent lean to the wall of the elegant smoking room. He scarce seemed to notice the fist fighting knot of his peers crashing through over the fine furniture, knocking aside priceless decanters of even more priceless vintages, scattering cigars and pipes alike in their wake.
The ever cheerful palace staff broke up the fight, clearing away the wreckage and replacing it with fresh bottles, chairs, and such. The mild injuries were cleaned and bandaged, the ruffled egos of the young men soothed.
Really, it was past creepy, how efficient the staff was in the Celestial Palace, Falcone decided, quirking a brow as a butler relieved him of the nail buff to take over the work himself. Shrugging, Falcone simply allowed the man to finish polishing his nails and nodded when he moved on.
A far better job than he had been doing, Falcone decided, admiring the shine before taking a glass of wine from another butler. As the staff seemed to vanish from the room, Falcone smirked at the other youths sitting sullenly in the aftermath of the fight.
“You're all idiots, you know,” Falcone informed them with a thin smile, “You think you're going to win the princess's hand by standing around like lovely little man-dolls.”
“And just what is it that you think will do that, Falcone?” Ereson demanded, nursing a bag of ice to his eye.
“First of all, it might help if you actually observed her and discovered what she likes,” Falcone pointed out, “Which is none of us.”
There was a shocked silence before a tall red head sprang to his feet, outraged.
“Really, Falcone, you may be nearly a bitter old man, but we are all quite young and handsome, I daresay none are more handsome than I...”
Falcone smiled benignly over the argument of which of them was the youngest and most beautiful. He held up a hand.
“She finds none of us attractive or interesting, no matter what our age. Why? Because none of you idiots have listened to all those lovely songs about her parents.”
“And just why are you being so kind as to tell us this?” the red head sneered. Falcone smirked.
“I'm not a greedy man. My sister holds the throne to my kingdom, and that's fine by me. Thus I could become emperor if I could gain Aralyne's hand and heart, or I could be trusted council to the lucky young man I aided into that enviable position.”
“As if anyone would trust you,” Danan snapped, but he was clearly thoughtful. Falcone was by some five years the senior of the young princes's staying at the palace. He was a late arrival, having shown up well after Aralyne's eighteenth birthday.
Aralyne had been known to talk to him, as well. Which was far more than most of the young men had gained.
“While you boys were scuffling like street urchins around her on her last ride, I was actually listening to what she was saying. What she was saying is the key to winning her hand,” Falcone offered lazily, “She's a nice girl, but frankly, she's dull. Duchess Rynna is far more intriguing in my eyes...”
Falcone trailed off as the others all but sprang to their feet to protest Falcone's speaking so meanly of the princess. He smiled, wry, as they inadvertently proved his point.
“You all find her so entrancing, then perhaps you may want to actually find a way to win her hand that doesn't involve you all causing collateral damage to the palace you so desperately want to call your own,” Falcone murmured, his voice a warm rippling of humor. He finished off his wine in a single drink, and, saluting the others, sauntered from the chamber.
It wouldn't take all that long, Falcone decided. They couldn't all be idiots. Or complete idiots, anyhow. Falcone continued on to his room, smiling faintly as he heard three of the prince's scuffling over who would follow.
He didn't care if all three burst in. It would improve his odds. Titles and empresses were empty, but having the power - that was far more than any beautiful but boring girl and a throne that demanded far too much in the way of propriety.
Falcone kissed his fingertip and pressed that to the brow of the painting of his sister. Clever woman, she knew how to bring their family from the ashes of a fallen kingdom and put them into power. She used those resources to make sure her beloved baby brother had an even better chance.
“And just what is this great plan of yours, Falcone?” Ereson demanded, shouldering into the mans suite with Danan and Werebit pushing at his side.
“It's very simple, lads. Haven't you ever heard of Windlass Gate?” Falcone smiled, thin and cold.
General Hakkabi sat, a massif in repose, at the large map table, staring at a small horse and rider statuette placed directly on the long disused road between the Empire Celestial and Windlass Gate. His clawed fingers ticked lightly against each other as he considered.
Nothing from the Empire could be considered harmless or routine. His mistrust of the people was deeply ingrained, scarred into his soul by their warriors and madness. He glanced up with a grunt, straightening for a moment, as Sheldon joined him.
“Report,” Sheldon noted simply as he poured them both mugs of coffee.
“Sighted last night, a patrol of ten riders. All bearing the standard of Keolf's Helm, one of the sub-kingdoms within the Empire. Moving light, this seems to be a cavalry detachment rather than knights.”
“Seeking a way out of the Empire, we have seen that in the past,” Sheldon mulled, and Hakkabi quirked up a brow, glancing to the man.
“We have?”
“We, of the city above, yes. The last two rules were weak. That's why so many kingdoms were outside of the boundaries when the current emperor rode out to remake them,” Sheldon nodded. Hakkabi tilted his head.
“Just how long do you people up above live, anyhow?” he inquired skeptically, “Your daughter ages as my nephew does.”
“A long while. But we do grow up fairly like yours. My daughter says your nephew is a butthead and thinks the world of him.”
“He is a shame to the family, constantly studying,” Hakkabi sniffed. Sheldon eyed the general.
“Whom you give a gold piece to for each high mark he receives in class.”
“I am not his foolish parents, and your daughter talks too much,” the general responded, arrogance fading in a soft chuff of laughter, “The rule of the current emperor seems yet strong. Is there else that could bring these riders from the empire?”
“Could be anything, including finally getting back to the emperor's original idea of subjugating Windlass Gate. I think we should assume this it the intention,” Sheldon decided, tilting his head.
“There was a time when you seemed to want them to do this. To want to dare them to do this. Why?” Hakkabi queried, leaning back to take a deep drink of the coffee, all the while inspecting Sheldon.
A nearly impossible face to read. Sheldon may as well have his cowl over his face even when it was not. He was a still, calm, man, who seemed only to come alive when his daughter was at hand.
“It would have put the higher ranking officers in our reach, perhaps even the emperor, who was said to always lead the charges. Finding out what on earth goes through their minds would go far in finally finding a way to break them out of their eternal entropy,” Sheldon explained, “These men may provide some answers, but better to regard them as a potential threat.”
“Tell me, Warlord, how well does it sit with your council on high that you have become so much more a man of Windlass Gate than you were of the Forbidden City?” Hakkabi inquired, a shrewd study leveled on Sheldon.
Surprisingly, Sheldon abruptly grinned and laughed once.
“Not as poorly as you might imagine. They were aware that I become fond of and attached to the damndest things.”
“Like this little community of primitive bugs.”
“Would you believe me if I told you that this community and those we have populated from here are considered to be far more promising than even our own?” Sheldon asked, tilting his head faintly.
“No. Your people are nearly gods, we are mere men and women.”
“We have gods, too.”
“That pleases me. I still cannot see how you may see us as anything but lesser creatures which you have some scientific interest in keeping alive,” Hakkabi admitted, leaning back in his chair, almost in a relaxed pose.
“I raise my daughter here, when I could have returned many times,” Sheldon pointed out, lifting a brow. Hakkabi held up a taloned finger to counter.
“You have not selected a woman, either. And there are many who would gladly stand at your side.”
It was a nearly alarming moment to see Sheldon's face burn scarlet, the surprise so clearly stamped across his features, the fumbling with the mug. Hakkabi's brows rose as he observed this.
“Or, as my mother often scolded me, sometimes the most simple of explanations is the true one,” Hakkabi noted dryly, “I would think you would be more able among the fairer sex.”
“Hakkabi, I can't even tell you how the hell I ended up with a daughter,” Sheldon admitted, a hand over his face.
“I cannot help you at all if you are that unlearned,” Hakkabi noted, all too droll and dry. Sheldon shot him a sourly amused glare.
“You know what I mean. I've never done well with women. I either start stammering and blushing and acting a fool or escape with all possible speed.”
“Some women like that in a man,” Hakkabi pointed out.
“Yes, the sort that swing in like harpies, grab them by the testicles and swing them around a few times for sport because the poor fools aren't able enough to see what those women really are,” Sheldon snapped irritably, reaching for the coffee pot once more. Hakkabi nodded, slow and sage.
“A very bad divorce.”
“Incredibly. I didn't even know there was a child until my lawyers assistant dropped her off with me.”
“Not all women are so. You should have a wife. You're a good parent, a good warlord,” Hakkabi informed him, almost sternly. Sheldon rolled his eyes, exhaling as he poured out the brew.
“Said the single warrior man.”
“Different culture.”
“You lie so badly. You're probably worse than I am with women,” Sheldon accused, but Hakkabi laughed with a wave of hand.
“No, no, I prefer males. I'll contract sometime with a pair of females for children some day, but without a steady partner, it makes for an uneven coupling.”
“Oh. It sounds easier,” Sheldon decided, considering the dynamics. Hakkabi shook his head, rumbling laughter.
“Not a bit, actually. I am still a headstrong, solitary, independent man deeply settled in my ways. I don't care for youth or beauty, nor feminine ways, weakness disgusts me, and those of my age and bearing are mostly claimed or simply too set in their own ways.”
“So we're settled, old bachelors, then,” Sheldon nodded firmly, avoiding looking at the general.
“Oh, no no. You're a young man yet, and your daughter is of an age to need a mother's advice more than yours. Unless you believe yourself capable of advising her throughout that,” Hakkabi smirked, raising his brow and watching the other closely.
“...I have my mother...”
“If you can get along with your mother and daughter, you can deal with a wife,” Hakkabi declared, rising to his feet and finishing his coffee, “Now, I will return to my quarters. Scouts are set out to watch the riders from the Empire, they will bring word at any changes. Good evening.”
Sheldon glared at the general as he marched from the room, and finally muttered, rubbing his temples.
“Bad enough I have to listen to my family bitch about this, now my own blasted general wants to play matchmaker,” Sheldon griped as he finished his coffee.
“Windlass Gate,” Prince Werebit announced with a toss of his red hair and a quick assessment of his appearance on his fine white stallion. Not there was much of an audience, not like when he had ridden out. The road leaving the Shining Star City had been lined with cheering crowds. The emperor himself had bid a benign farewell and wished him luck upon his quest to contact Windlass Gate.
The tower of the warlord loomed over the city, and seemed occupied. Banners and flags flew from turrets, tapestries hung over balconies. People could be seen moving about.
Troops drilled in a wide yard before the city. A tall, fortified wall surrounded the outmost farmlands, running to join with the mountains clasping the city. Werebit shifted in his saddle.
“Demons,” one of the prince's men hissed as they came ever closer. Werebit reined in his horse sharply, his face white.
“Demons?”
“The troops. Half of them are demons!” the man blurted out. Werebit debated his options as he realized that it was so, among the humans were as many tall, muscular, horned demons.
“This must be the doing of the warlord. He must be cast down,” Werebit decided, his voice trembling despite himself, “He has summoned those abominations from the pits of hell.”
“We must turn back and tell the emperor of this, that he can send a proper troop,” Werebit's aid decided, and Werebit nodded, wide eyed. Getting as far away from the city and back to the safety of the empire was obviously the proper course.
Before any of the men could so much as turn their horses, they found themselves surrounded by archers all but melting from the roadside.
“Surrender,” General Hakkabi boomed, riding out on a massive black animal that seemed half lion and half dragon.
Prince Werebit fainted in the saddle. The riders with him seemed in little better shape. Hakkabi lifted a brow slowly. Perhaps what Sheldon had said, about not granting the people of the empire mystic powers, was true.
It was a vast, red stained throne room, smelling of ancient corruption, that Werebit found himself awakening in. He slowly pushed himself to sit, trying to take stock of his position.
Seated on the throne, cowled in black, the warlord seemed to watch the young man. He was unearthly still, silent, without even a random glitter of eye under the cowl to give evidence of life.
“Welcome to my humble abode, young prince,” Sheldon noted, his voice quiet and penetrating, “We have not entertained those of the Empire Celestial in many years. Do explain what has brought you to our poor gates.”
“Fiend! Demon! You bring evil to the world, you only bide your time to attack the blessed empire!” Werebit blurted out, scrambling to his feet and glaring at the cowled man.
“Then you are admitting to spying upon us in the emperor's name?” Sheldon queried, lightly drumming his fingertips on the arm of the throne. Werebit faltered, trying to backtrack over his own words in confusion.
“No! Why would the Empire spy? Spies are beneath us. We are proud and honorable people with nothing to hide!”
“Then why are you here?” Sheldon pressed, his voice intensifying. Werebit shuddered faintly. There was a palpable power to that quiet and deep voice.
“I came with good intentions, to negotiate a binding between Windlass Gate and the Empire, that Windlass Gate might enjoy the same privileges as any of the fair kingdoms within her arms.”
“The same privileges. To surrender unreasonably high taxes, to stagnate and stratify the people into unbreakable castes, to lobotomize the minds of our children that they would never arise above what has been ordained by some fool on a golden throne,” Sheldon sneered, his voice purring and sleek, “To suffer the implacable boot of that old fool upon our necks. I think not.”
“The privileges of peace and prosperity,” Werebit snapped, blinking several times at the take the warlord had on the empire, “And you are a fine one to speak poorly of the Empire, you who have even summoned demons to enslave the population here!”
“It was necessary that I have warriors that could protect this valuable piece of property from that psychotic madman,” Sheldon countered, almost sweetly, “There is no diplomat of the empire that is not an envoy of war. Shall I write that in fire upon your corpse before I send it burning back to the boundaries of your empire of slaves?”
Werebit's face went absolutely white.
“I came to offer peace!” he yelped, his voice breaking.
“We shall see,” Sheldon snarled, raising to his feet and extending a finger towards the young man. Werebit squealed like a rabbit in a snare as a bolt of red hued energy leapt from Sheldon's hand to strike the prince in the chest.
As Werebit collapsed, Sheldon idly shook his hand, as if to rid it of any residual power clinging to it. Hakkabi nodded in dour approval.
“I thought the title of magus was honorary.”
“No, I earned it fairly. But the first thing you learn is not to fling it about like an ale brewers apprentice. What do you think of young Prince Werebit?”
“I think he's a moron who was somehow tricked into coming here,” Hakkabi decided, strolling closer to Werebit, “He had not studied at all on what records there must be of Windlass Gate.”
“If there are such records,” Sheldon mulled, “Why send a little prince such as this at all? Why not a diplomat? Perhaps to get rid of him in court, but they pride themselves on not having petty jealousies and such.”
“He is an untried and untrained youth. A few days in the sort of dungeon as he must believe we have will have him telling us his entire sad tale,” Hakkabi offered with a shrug, toeing at the young man.
It seemed incredible that this was one of the very people he feared and hated his entire adult life.
“Horrible, filthy, damp, dank, rat and roach infested? Do you have any idea what the maid staff would do to me if I introduced that into their nice, clean tower?” Sheldon inquired dryly, “Or any idea of how many of those rats and roaches my daughter would make into pets?”
“Can you make him believe that he is being held in such a place?” the general tried, nodding dourly over Sheldon's response.
“Yes, but I have better uses for my energies. We could have him held in a guest suite, and he will insist upon seeing the rats, roaches, and general filth, I think, with as shaken as he is now. I doubt much he has any of the emperor's blood in him, but I still think I will take samples from he and his troop. At least begin to form a genetic profile upon them,” Sheldon mulled, gesturing to a pair of guards.
“I am pleased to not understand what you have just said,” Hakkabi decided.
“Your nephew Hassid will explain. Take the prince to the infirmary, and his men. Have them sedated. I'll be in shortly to run my tests,” Sheldon ordered, a flickering of humor to his tone.
As Sheldon slid the heavy black robe from his shoulders, the door to his suite opened. He glanced back, trying to brush out his clothing, and smiled to see his mother. That smile quickly faded, however, at her concerned expression.
“Mother? Where's Violet?” he asked, his tone going abruptly sharp and uneasy. She smiled quickly, moving to kiss his cheek and brush at his lapels.
“She's fine, I had her taken to her room, she fell asleep on the transport.”
“Oh,” Sheldon responded, sagging somewhat in relief before he quickly eluded his mother and headed for the girls room to see for himself. Mavelle followed with a rued smile.
“She's fine, Sheldon,” she chided, lowering her voice. She watched fondly, however, as he ignored her and walked to look Violet over, intent and terse. He finally bent over to kiss her brow and cover her gently.
“What's the matter, then?” Sheldon asked, padding from the girl's bedroom, “It's good you're here, you can decide what tests to run on a batch of Empire Celestial citizens to begin creating a database on them.”
“Oh. Yes, of course,” Mavelle agreed, following as he led her through the tower, “Sheldon, there was a bit of a ...well. Violet was out picking blueberries, and she got lost.”
“And?” he asked, frowning.
“She ended up right on the Winnibel's front lot,” Mavelle explained with a wince as the mere mention of the name caused Sheldon snarl violently.
“Winnibel?!” he hissed, wide eyed. Mavelle nodded, reaching up to try and sooth her son.
“Yes. But...”
“How in the hell could she end up there, it's miles from the berries,” he demanded, furious.
“I know, I know...”
“I don't want her anywhere near those people! How could she... Damn it all, I know, she got lost, but …”
“Sheldon, it's all right. She's fine. I just wanted to let you know because Mrs. Winnibel is as unpleasant and mean as ever, and I know she harped on how wicked girls are to Violet. I explained that to Violet, but she's at that age,” Mavelle reassured him gently, taking one of his hands to pet.
Sheldon startled faintly, his brows knitting.
“Age? What age? What that age?” he asked sharply.
“That age, sweet heart, almost into puberty. Sensitive and emotional. We ended up taking you out of school at that age because you were just too fragile for it,” she reminded him.
“I almost wish you hadn't. There's a lot I never learned,” Sheldon grumbled, squeezing her hand before leading her to the infirmary.
“Calculated risk, sweet. And you can still learn it. It was better to get you away from all that and let you be yourself than to try and force you through it,” Mavelle chuckled softly, “You just were not and are not your older brothers.”
“I know, I know,” he responded with a soft and dry humor. His mother frowned as she looked over Werebit and his fellows.
“These are from the empire?”
“Well. One's a prince, the others seem to be his footmen or something. None seem to have any real training in diplomacy or even fighting.”
“They look more like a lot of skinny boys.”
“They do, at that. We've seen their warriors, they're much bigger. I believe they breed castes.”
“That would answer quite a bit of what we know already,” Mavelle nodded, finding a lab coat and pulling it on, “Well, let's get started. I wonder if we could restore them to a normally developing state...”
“Don't get too fancy, Mom. We need to send them home eventually, and they can't do that if they aren't Empire any longer. They'd wonder what the fuss was and just take up work here,” Sheldon cautioned, somewhat amused.
It nagged at him, however. He wanted to wake Violet then and there and make sure she didn't pay a bit of attention to Mrs. Winnibel. He wanted to grab the transport and return home to give the woman a piece of his mind.
He had work.