MARIN DRASWIST IS CLOSE. Her goal has never been within her reach. The island is already divided into two warring sides, and Cardovia, the organization she serves, grows more powerful by the second with her help. But when a war against an extinct bu...
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2412, Iclis 8, Reshpe
Sweat never stopped dripping down the sides of Marin's face. A warm blast of wind hit her skin, carrying with it a storm of scratchy particles. On the way here, she had spat those annoying grains out of her mouth and dusted them off before they infected her eyes. The sentries flanking her forged ahead, barely blinking and flinching at all the things Marin did.
She should never have worn black.
Lanbridhr glared down at her like an oppressive sheet of beige, sepia, and sienna. Everything was a tint or shade of those three colors, and Marin stood out like a siphood out of the sand. Since she stepped out of the shadows at the outskirts of the palace, she had gotten weird looks from the merchants, the fire sprites, and everyone else who weren't used to seeing such a bold color parading around.
Not that Marin minded. She came here to do her job, not conform to whatever insane fashion standard they have.
Marin wasn't one to pry, but the rule about these specialty vests being handled like trophies by the Potentate was stupid at best. But if those vests served other purposes in the background, then it's actually genius. The Potentate might have just created an unfair system of merit for his citizens. No wonder they're unhappy, and he's scared he'd get deposed sometime soon.
Hence, the Heiress sent Marin to go talk. With the High Queen's recommendation, she was granted audience with the two remaining spritean territories. As of the moment, the Heiress told Marin to not worry about Desara and Falkirta. Those territories were, in their own ways, under Cardovic rule.
Marin knew better than to ask questions, so she packed her supplies and created a portal into the untouchable desert wasteland that was Lanbridhr. Not that it's bland or anything. It has its own allure, its charm and hidden attractions. But it was just so hot. If not for the natural advantage they have over normal keijuis, fire sprites wouldn't survive here either.
Why? Because nothing grows. Nothing lives, except maybe those fluffy lemper-like animals being herded across the streets of Calca. But that's only possible inside the oasis. Those clouds of wool would probably drop dead should their shepherd decide to parade them across the expanse of shifting dunes.
In essence, Lanbridhr sucks.
Not that she'd say that to the Potentate's face, but judging from the frown coloring his features as he slouched on his visibly uncomfortable slab of a throne, he agreed with that sentiment—even if he's not aware.
The sentries, together with Marin, stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the raised dais. Thrones of different ornamentation littered the platform in a square-like formation. Both wings included two rows of vested officials whom Marin identified to be the court of advisers. Beside the Potentate, two more thrones populated the line connecting both parts. The Queen's, and...someone else's. Did they have a Crown Prince? Was he named Seravel or something?
