The airship's dining hall was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engines below. The man sat at the polished mahogany table, a solitary figure amidst the fine dinnerware and utensils. He was an island of stillness in the otherwise bustling atmosphere, his posture impeccably straight, every movement precise. His cold, calculating eyes scanned the plate before him, a dish laid out with the sort of care one might reserve for a work of art: Karrnathi Ironplate. That is what the chef had called this masterpiece.
The seared meat strips glistened with a sheen of perfectly rendered fat, the edges caramelized to a rich brown. He inspected them first with the sharpness of a master, considering each piece's texture, the precise crispness that marked the perfect execution of a dish. His fork moved delicately, picking up a piece as though handling a precious artifact. Slowly, deliberately, he brought it to his lips, his pale mouth savoring the tender meat in measured bites, not a shred of it wasted.
The dark rye beneath the meat was thick and hearty, crusted with grains that cracked faintly under the weight of his knife. He sliced through it with an elegance that seemed almost ceremonial, as if he were performing a ritual. The crumbs fell in perfect, uniform patterns on the plate. No errant bits. No mess. As he dipped a piece into the butter, he studied the golden sheen of the herbs, his gaze lingering just a moment too long before bringing the morsel to his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion. It was as though he were testing the limits of his own restraint, every bite an exercise in control.
The pickled roots came next, their sharp, tangy aroma mixing with the richness of the meat. His fork pierced a root, lifting it to his lips with the same meticulous care. The bright, almost unnatural color of the vegetables stood in stark contrast to the dark tones of the plate, yet he examined them as if contemplating a philosophical question. The sharp vinegar bite hit his tongue, and for a moment, his eyes flickered in discomfort, but only for a heartbeat, before he suppressed it with a smooth, calculated breath.
The buttered herbed potatoes were the last to be touched, the soft, creamy interior broken open with a slight pressure from his fork. A perfect golden halo of crisp skin encased the potato like a delicate shell. He pressed the soft insides against the plate, then swirled them with the butter, watching as the herbs clung to the surface. With measured calm, he took a bite. There was no rush, no indulgence—only the barest hint of satisfaction that passed over his lips in the smallest of smiles.
His gaze never wavered from the plate as he ate, his movements so graceful and precise that it seemed he might have been orchestrating a lifesaving surgery. Not a single bite was messy. Not a single motion wasted. The entire meal unfolded like a performance—one that he was masterfully in control of.
Once the plate was empty, he set his utensils down with a soft clink, the quiet sound hanging in the air like a closing note. His napkin came to his lips, dabbing them with a clean, slow motion, and his eyes cast upward, almost as if savoring the silence that followed.
After a few moments, the man, satisfied with his meal, pushed the chair back with caution as he stood, returned the chair to its rightful and respectful place, left a handsome tip on his table for his waiter…and departed.
His footsteps echoed softly along the polished corridors of the ship. The faint scent of death—always present, no matter how much he tried to mask it—clung to him like a shadow, noticeable to those who might have been attuned to such things. As he reached his quarters, the door opened with a faint creak. Inside, the room was meticulously arranged, the furniture sparse but elegant, bathed in the faint glow of the sun through the windows.
He moved to a corner of the room, where an intricately carved wooden trunk sat—unassuming at first glance. He knelt before it with the same careful precision he had demonstrated throughout his meal, his hands moving with purpose as he unlatched the brass clasps.
Inside, the bag lay waiting—its contents hidden beneath layers of fabric. As he slowly unzipped it, the innards were revealed with an almost reverential touch.
A severed head, its face frozen in a grimace of despair, and several severed hands, their fingers still curling slightly as though trying to grasp at something just out of reach. The sight was unsettling, yet his gaze softened with something approaching joy. He ran a finger lightly across one of the hands, his expression filled with hints of subtle pleasure.
Without hesitation, his hand reached over and delicately picked up the severed head, bringing it slowly to meet his eyes. He studied its lifeless features, his fingers tracing the edge of the jawline as though he were reacquainting himself with an old friend.
"You’ve been quiet," he murmured, his voice soft, almost affectionate. "I missed our conversations. Do you remember the last time we spoke? Of course, you do." He tilted his head, as if waiting for a response, then sighed. "Always so stubborn."
His eyes narrowed slightly, and with a sudden, unsettling tenderness, he leaned in and kissed the head on the lips. The gesture was slow, deliberate, and disturbingly intimate—lips meeting cold, lifeless skin in a moment that seemed to stretch on unnervingly long.
The silence that followed was thick and palpable, and as he placed the head back into the bag with the same reverence as before, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier, more suffocating. But not for the man…not for that dreaded Necromancer. He was right at home.
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