[h1]Tibet[/h1]
[h2]Lhasa[/h2]

The wooden halls of the Potala Palace contained within their bowls a harsh bitter smell of burning fat. The acrid odors mingled with the heavy earthly aroma of woody musk and the ages of preserve in the wood of the ancient palace. Unhooded, the prisoner leered gloomily at the passing halls as he was dragged through the halls.

Elaborately carved wooden pillars, motifs decorated in amber and golden leaf, and the pale-yellow light of banks and beds of candles passed him by. Men in mismatched uniforms of plated armor and leather carried him through from under the arms. The clicking of the metal scales and plates in their armor was a somber and lonely music accompanying the distant, muffled chanting of monks. In the dim lighting their faces were hidden and obscured in the soft shadows and dim lights so they were only phantoms of men.

Their boots beat heavily against the centuries-preserved wood in a low drum-beat as they turned to a room off the side. The drumming of the leather soles ebbed to a muffled and muddled drum as they dragged him over carpet. Too weak to look up, the captive starred down at the twisting designs woven into the rug. With a hard thud, he dropped suddenly to meet the coarse weave. He gasped stiffly for breath before a voice beckoned him to rise.

He slowly rose to his hands and knees. The room was not large, and was in fact not any bigger than many peasant's huts. Though this only reinforced the size and palatial size of the Potala Palace. Woven tapestries of the Buddha and the enlightened afterlife hung from the walls. Narrow windows let in streams of golden light filtered through the dusty air. In darkened corners robed courtiers hung back in the shadows, hiding their whispers behind palms as they looked down at the beggar soul on the floor. The guards and soldiers with their scavenged suits and weapons loitered more clearly on either side of a throne of yellow cushions and blankets. Seated upon which was the cross-legged liege of the palace.

Samten Khyenpa Gyatso was a prince possessed. The man before him now was one who could claim to have seen him before when he was much younger. But then it was a glancing look at a man who enjoyed the presence of the monks over. Through his sullen brown eyes had once shown a compassionate charity.

But now through a karmic twist of fate, he now knelt before him at a worse time. Bent by malice and revenge, the prince was a lion in his mid-forties. His eyes shown with no charity or mercy, but an enraged and upfront emotion. That of anger, that of revenge, and that desiring which was stolen by him. Looking up he understood just how much he had loved his father and how much he would have him back. But he was gone now, and there was only him clutching the sword of Lhasa.

Samten did not need to speak for the prisoner to know why he was here. He was caught before he could flee the lands ruled by Lhasa for Kham, or even the far-away Dong. He couldn't make it to Sikkim or to Nepal. And not his laziness was paying up in spades for his treachery and his plotting. Looking at the prince, he knew that he knew. The power in his stare was beyond that of compromise and any word he spoke would be negated.

“Some might say the world needs more compassion.” he said in a low voice. His tone was low as if he were hiding it from the public ear as much as the whispering courtiers. He held a trembling hand to his brow and brushed aside a long lock of black hair, stuffing it underneath the brass crown of Lhasa. The faded tarnished metal was cast like that of the hats of the monks, a tall curved horn that bowed forward, decorated in horse-hair frills that dangled from the seams. “But when the dispassionate steal from someone something irreplaceable, I find myself double-guessing this philosophy. No matter the good work and the good word, the irredeemable and the foul will be crawling in the gutters. Looking up and ready to kill. And for what, dearest traitor?”

The assassin could only lay on the carpet, shaking from hunger, thirst, and of rage. He boiled deep inside but lacked the strength to walk. It had all bled out from his feet. He worked his tongue in his mouth, but the dry cotton that it had become produced only inaudible vocalizations. Behind him the two hunters that had recovered him triumphantly smiled.

“P-p-prince Chodah-ah-ak.” he finally croaked. He felt his stomach turn and twist inside of him. The sickly throws of nausea forced him to keel over at his betrayal to his liege-lord. He cried as he pounded his head against the carpet. But Samten watched, without amusement as the assassin punished himself. “That is the name I shall betray!” he declared.

“What is it you're afraid of?” asked Samten between clenched teeth. The assassin looked up at him, baffled.

“Of the misdeeds to commit, why is it murder!?” he boomed, “Theft, rape, assault. You could have done much more. But why attack your liege? And why in the name of some other!?”

Moaning, the prisoner laid his head on the ground. Samten sat atop his throne, burning and passionate with anger. If he had looked up he would have seen him glower with the energetic reds of the setting sun. He was there the end of day, all contained in the wrinkled face as round as the sun itself.

“Your noble sire,” bowed one of the hunters, “When we took the captive we found this on his person.”

With a thud a small leather pouch was thrown onto the ground between the prisoner and the prince. The two looked at it. The prisoner in feeble terror and the prince in cautious anger.

“Dare I take it?” he openly asked.

“We checked the contents, it was a paid contract.” the hunter acknowledged.

Somehow, this made the prince even angrier. As he shot from the throne he shouted in a thunderous voice, “And you were so in need for wealth!” he scolded.

He scooped the satchel from the ground and tore it open, “To think misdeeds to be committed for something as base as to why the war ended.” he scowled.

Inside the bag was an assorted collection of shimmer brass bullets, still fresh within their casing. Gemstones and gold nuggets shared space. The glittering wealth of corruption stared up at and Samten. With fury he threw it to the side, as if it were a venomous snake.

“Insolent thirsty greed!” he bellowed wrothfully, “Base misdeed!”

The courtiers nodded in agreement. The palace itself seemed to freeze at the judgement.

With a wave of his hand Samten closed the audience. “Intern this man into the dungeons, we will force the story from him in the days time. We'll decide sentence then.”

The prisoner cried as he was pulled back up to his feet by the guards and dragged off through the halls. Smiling triumphantly the two hunters walked casually across the room to the prince.

“Your honor.” the eldest bowed.

“Gyaltsen.” Samten acknowledged, “How is your brother?”

“Lobsang does well.” he answered, “This prisoner, you really think we can milk him more?”

Samten shrugged as he returned to the throne. Passionate anger still burned in his veins like hot iron. Sitting on the corner he rubbed his fingers across his palms. “Perhaps, but it's something I trust that Ngwang and you can no doubt accomplish.” he said plainly, looking up at the younger partner, “But here, now, I have the name I needed. I will have to prepare the response accordingly. I will have to dispatch word to your brother and we can put this together.”

Gyaltsen bowed, “It sounds like war is on the wind. May these fires be brief.”

Samten spat, “Chodak stole my family, I will steal the same from him.” he grumbled.

“But Chodak has no father. Though his brothers and sons will be the first to meet you in battle.”

“It's not them I want, it's his lands. They are the most valuable to him. I will add Ngari to my titles and imprison him.”

Gyalston the Hunter nodded, it was not in position to question it further. “I understand.” he said, though he wished for it to be shorter, temperament held to withdraw his reservations for the moment.

“We will begin seeing to our guest.” he said, turning to the door.