Chapter One: The Chosen
"Your Majesty, I urge you to reconsider this decision," the Prince sat quietly on his father's throne, considering the priest as he rolled a coin back and forth over his fingers pensively. The Priest standing before the Prince referred to him with all the proper titles, tones and inflections. Yet he did not kneel, or even bow after entering, and he made direct eye contact with the soon-to-be King. That alone said all he needed to know about the Priest's intentions. To this man he was merely a child who might serve a purpose, truly they were getting arrogant. His father had denied the Church entry, why did they think he would be any different? They came crawling to him with bribes of gold and jewels, and now they had the audacity to urge that he do anything? It was insufferable.
"You forget your place, priest," the Prince said softly, causing the emissary from the church to lean in closer to hear him. "The Throne of Othea is not beholden to the Holy Order of Idris, I have made my decision and it is final," the King turned his gaze from the priest with all the finality he could muster, focusing on the silver coin he kept dancing across his fingers with ease. It had become a nervous habit of his over the years, something his father had failed to break him of. The priest's jaw clenched and twisted as he tried to contort some excuse to continue speaking, but he surrendered and with a wave of his hands the servants he had brought scurried around him to reclaim the 'gifts' he had brought.
"Very well then, Prince Aral, but I warn you if the church discovers that you have been harboring evokers their will be...consequences," with a deft motion, Aral dropped the coin into his hand, clenching it into a fist as he shifted a withering gaze to the smug priest.
"You have overstayed your welcome," the priesthood truly did not teach their emissaries when to stop talking.
"I-"
"GET...OUT." the Prince clenched the arms of his throne as the priest weighed his options, eventually he realized there was nothing to gain here and bowed. Retreating from the throne room with his servants. Prince Aral waved a retainer over once the priest was gone. "Have the guard follow them, make sure they leave the city without causing problems, and send for Janir," Janir had been his father's adviser, and was helping him prepare for the upcoming coronation which would hopefully be underway in a few hours. That irked him more, the priests had tried to strike before he was even king. Well what could he expect from them, they had been hounding his father for years and they would hound him until he was dead of old age as well. However, now that they were dealt with he had other matters of state that required his attention.
The City of Amaryth
Maksim twisted the needle back and forth slowly, he was a master of his craft and he would not let any distractions get between him and his work. Many people thought his needlework was ugly, even though they paid him a great deal of money. Maksim disagreed. He liked to consider himself an artist, and his mother had taught him that beauty was in the eye of the beholder. So naturally, he started with the eyes. The man strapped to the chair screamed and thrashed back and forth, but the filthy gag in his mouth stifled any sounds he tried to make as the 'artist' slowly gouged out his left eye. It was the sign of a true artist that they still enjoyed their work even after so many years, he had done this many times before but the colors of blood spreading across the canvas of his face was never any less...sublime.
"You are...Maksim?" the artist jerked as he was interrupted, the man in the chair thrashed harder as his eye split in two. Maksim sighed, this was the consequence of working with people who did not understand his art. It was impossible for him to concentrate on the canvas when they kept on asking him questions, but alas they were paying him to do something he loved so he did feel somewhat obligated to be polite. If only just.
"Yessss, I am he. What is it you wish, priest?" he said, eyeing the man up and down. Yes, his strong jaw would make quite the canvas indeed. Too bad he might never get to use it, but such was life. His predatory gaze must have unnerved the priest, because he shuffled backwards as he continued.
"Have you...extracted the information from him?" he asked quietly, looking away from the bloody mess. No one appreciated his art work, but he enjoyed it and that must be enough.
"Information?" Maksim asked, confused. He pulled the gag out of the man's mouth, silencing him with a backhanded blow as he let out an agonized scream. "What information does the priest seek?" the man could hardly speak through his sobbing.
"I-I-I'll tell y-you an-n-ything!" Maksim pushed the gag back into his mouth.
"You see? This one knows nothing you want, now if you'll go please I have more to carve away before this sculpture is perfect," he said, turning back and raising a scalpel. The man could only let out horrified moans around the gag.
"You haven't even asked him?!" the priest shouted. Maksim rolled his eyes, knowing that this would be a long night, then pulled the gag back from his mouth.
"This priest wishes you to speak of the evokers in Othea, so speak quickly."
