Many leagues to the North of where the Leal rested, stood the island of Xirba, largest island on Maa and home to the castle of the King of Sails.
The fortress stood on the side of a mountain, one of a range that cut through the middle of the island, the peaks rising tall and proud to the clouds. Jagged they were, and rough, yet holding a majesty and might that drew the eye whenever one passed them by. Their sides were covered in verdant green and lush grasses and trees, leading up to the hard crags and cliffs of the mightiest crests and cliffs on the world of Maa. The range was known as the Sails of the Maker, and it was said that they could never be broken, whether by man or my nature, until the Maker created the worlds anew. Many had climbed those peaks, but none had ever returned.
The Castle of Sails itself stood tall and proud in its walled, many towered splendour, walls of white sparkling in the sun so it seemed at times a star rested upon the mountain to glimmer and shine for all to see. It's main gates were protected by a portcullis of silvery steel so strong it was said no ramming device could ever break it, and the gates themselves were several feet thick; further preventing entry from that point by destruction of those mighty deterrents. To wither side of the gate stood two high, mighty walls, fashioned to appear as the prow of proud ships with a tower at their peak. From those towers the Watch could see the curve of the world they were so tall, and even the mountains could not block the view, allowing any in the tower to see in any direction as they desired.
Thus was it said that no ship could approach the island unseen.
Within the walls, guarded and patrolled night and day, stands a strong citadel and keep, as well as they varied buildings and structures that are needed to run a castle; bakery, blacksmithy, stables, barracks and such. All surrounding a courtyard of well kept greenery dotted with flowers and gardens here and there. The gardens were lovely, and prosperous; some of flowers and some of produce.
And some of death.
Marring the beauty of the land within the castle were instruments of dark torment and wicked, macabre demise. Gallows and stocks, chopping blocks for executions stained with the blood of many, racks and confines with all manner of barb and blade contained within. All stood as monuments to death and darkness, wickedness and cruelty. Indeed, some of those that could be closed and secured bore imprisoned souls within, for their mournful cries and wails could be heard to any within the castle grounds. The cries were a gruesome counter to the beauty of the day; a song of agony that rose up against the soft tones of nature around them.
This was the garden the usurper King of Sails, Almakhadie, Lord of Deception, enjoyed most. He loved spending time amongst the instruments of torment. Often, as he passed among them, he would lovingly caress a device, or pause to stroke a coffin like device that contained the means of ghastly endings. If he passed one that was occupied, he woud pause in rapture to listen to the moans and cries, the whimpers and pleas from within, his eyes closed in rapture as a smile caressed his lips. Let others enjoy the foolish offerings of nature. Here was his delight. In death and lurid torment did he find the truest of beauty. For him, the ghastly, the horrific was his medium, and he was an avid artist of the form.
Even at this time, he was moving among his prizes, his beauties, with a beatific, peaceful and pleased smile on his face.
A man dressed in a fine tunice of scarlet under a richly brocaded vest of leather approached, bowing with a touch of nervousness to his king. Usurprer Almakhadie may be, but king he was, and a mercurial one at that; he was known to have someone kiled or tortured simply becuase he did not like how they were dressed. So, it was with no small trepidation that his Major Domo approached his king.
"Your Majesty, I apologize for this disturbance..."
The lean form, clad in blood red vest, blouse and leggings, all trimmed in gold, sighed, then turned to face the one who disturbed him with a frown upon his darkly handsome face. Clearly, the King was displeased to have his enjoyment disrupted.
"What is is, Lord Varance? I do NOT appreciate your disturbing my dalliance."
"Yes, your majesty, but your Hunters have returned, and they have found a prize they believe you will enjoy greatly."
"Oh?"
That one word sent a chill down the spine of the dark bearded Lord Varance. He knew that tone all too well. That cold, almost sibilant sound in his king's voice. The anticipated malice that laced such a simple vocalization was almost enough to make the man, an experienced sailor and warrior, quiver at the knees as his heart hurt for the one who was soon to be the focus of the King of Sails.
The smile upon Almakhadie's lips as he strode into the main courtroom was akin to that of a serpent about to feast upon it's favourite prey. No one who saw it could doubt the malignant delight the king was anticipating as he stepped into the hugely spacious chamber and made his way to the Throne of Sails.
To the casual observer, the courtroom of the king was beautiful in all its splendour. The walls were of fine white stone brought from a quarry deep inside the heart of the island, in the midst of the Sails of the Maker. All about the walls hung fine tapestries showing tales of former kings, heroes and sea captains or sailors from the past. Each tapestry was trimmed in fine gold thread that shimmered in the sunlight that came through tall, crystal clear windows trimmed in finely crafted silver.formed to look like swirling waves and rivers rising up and over the forms that held the windows in place. The floor was of highly polished marble, a gray-white with veins of ivory white quartz running here and there like fine threads throughout the almost mirror quality finish benath the feet of the courtiers that moved about the room.
In contrast to the sense of white that dominated the room, the courtiers and attendees were a constantly shifting and moving myriad rainbow of colours; here an emerald gown, there an azure tunic and hose, or an ebony vest atop a dove grey blouse. Everywhere one looked there was a new colour or tone to catch the eye and draw one's attention. All was music and laughter, smiles and charming speech. To all appearances, it was a wall-mannered, finally apparelled and happy group of people representing themselves and the kingdom to their monarch.
But appearances are often deceiving.
Eyes looked about in concern, furtive glances moved from one person to another, or to the gray-skinned, Lips were pressed together firmly to prevent trembling hands shook slightly as they held drinks and small plates of food. Those who moved about tried to appear graceful and poised, but their movements were stiff, almost jerky at times, as if they ones moving were prepared to run for their lives if needed, to flee in terror in the blink of a moment. Hearts beat rapidly, pulses raced, and all was fear, tension, angst and uncertainty as they waited for their king to take the throne.
The entrance of the king was a stone cast into a pond; as he stepped forward, those near him parted from his path and sought to be anywhere by near him. To be in the sight of Almakhadie was to risk one's very life. None within that court dared disrupt the monarch as he made his way to the Throne of Sails.
That throne stood at the end of a carpet of finely wrought, Aqua-marine toned run of silken cloth held in place by great, heavy, golden lamp stands so tightly the fabric barely moves as Almakhaide strode up in. In between the lampstands, their armour an ebony counter to the light that permeated the room, stood Shaiden guards armed with shields of onyx, spears tipped with the same stone, and a pair of wickedly curved blades criss-crossed upon their backs. Their helmets hid their faces, allowing one to only see the scarlet of their eyes as they gazed about them at the fluttering fops and toadies simpering about the room as they flowed toward the throne and their master.
None of the gathered throng dared speak, did not crave their king's notice, yet all desired to see what he would do with the one who was to be brought before him.
The Throne of Sails was a sight to see. Forged and crafted centuries past, it still gleamed and shone as if but newly made a short time before. The dais was bronze, and shaped to appear as the quarterdeck of a fine sailing shp, with stairs passing up on either side of what would have been the door to the Captain's chambers on a real vessel.These stairs were shaped from blue-green crystal, appearing as if they had been cast of water from the ocean itself. There were six steps to a side, each beautifully formed and fitted by a skilled craftsman in honour of the first King of Sails. At the top of the stairs, a line of the same crystal led to the throne. Also cast from bronze, it was forged and formed to be as a high backed captain's chair one might find aboard ship. However, it was shot through with the same crystal to form swirls and whorls that took on the shapes of waves along the sides and arm rests of the chair. The whole gave the impression of a ship at sea; a fitting seat from which the King of Sails could rule his domain.
Between the two flights of stairs was the seat of the First Hand of the King, the monarch's highest advisor and counsellor. Here sat a man of taciturn appearance garbed in austere robes of gray trimmed in black, his face lean and high-boned, eyes deep-set and piercing in their darkness. HIs face rarely showed emotion, and he was nearly as feared as the king, for all knew his other function within the realm.
He was the King's Executioner and Head of the Hunters; those who were sent out by the king or his Hand to find any who opposed or spoke out against the sovereign of the land. These men and women were imbued with concoctions and drugs to give them greater strength and speed than most. Their senses were heightened to a feral state and, to many, they were little better than animals themselves.
To Almakhadie, they were servants and tools to keep control over a kingdom he claimed as his.
The First Hand rose as the king approached the throne, bowing to him without emotion as the scarlet clad ruler mounted the steps. Almakhadie barely acknowledged the man and moved up to his throne. Then, sitting upon the blue-green cushion that sat ready to receive him, he looked out over the gathered folk before him with a slow smile. He loved having such power, power that was his and his alone. Yes, the Emperor ruled over all, and he was his servant, however powerful he may be. But here, on Maa, he could allow himself the illusion of true power,
"I thirst."
A servant approached, dressed in flowing tunic of red trimmed in purple, and black hose, mounting the stairs bearing a golden tray upon wich sat a crystal goblet of fine red wine. He bowed to his king as he offered it, silently praying to the Maker that the wine was acceptable.
Almakhadie took the goblet and drank deeply as the boy started to turn away.
"Wait."
The servant froze.
The entire courtroom went silent, not even a breath could be heard.
Calm, cold, ice came to everyone's ears as the king spoke again.
"Why did you pray to the Maker just now?"
A soft gasp came from the crowd before the throne and, almost as one, everyone took a step back, seeking to be as far as possible from their king and the unfortunate servant upon whom the monarch focused his attentions.
The boy, a mere 18 years of age, with dark hair and fine features, slowly turned to face his king, thoug he kept his head down in deference to his ruler.
"Y...Y...Your Majesty....I...I....did not...."
The laugh that filled the hall was chilling, an icy finger of fear that ran up everyone's spine and curled around their throats to stop the breath in their lungs and freeze the heart with its gleeful malice.
"You are lying! Lying to me! TO ME! Oh this is fun!"
A gesture, and the boy was stricken, his face pale, eyes wide as he started gagging, choking, gasping for breath. In an instant he had dropped to his knees, hands clutching at nothing as he heaved against unseen forces attacking him, choking him, robbing him of breath. His ragged attempts to breathe were torturous to see. The muscles of his neck stood out as he strained and heaved against his unseen foe, his fingers clawing at his own neck to draw bloody scratches upon it. His face twisted and grimaced, eyes staring at nothing as his mouth gaped and gagged for precious air and his back arched in agonized attempts to get breath into his body.
And all the while Almakhadie sat his throne sipping his wine as he watched the tableau before him with the easy delight of one watching a fine play.
"I can see your mind, boy. I see your every thought, you stupid child. And I can manipulate what you see and feel."
Therein lay the truth; no one was choking the boy. There was no attacker. No one had their hands around his neck. Yet he believed all of this was true and, in believing it, he was dying.
It only took a few moments and another gesture from the Lord of Deception, and the boy fell to the ground limply, harsh gasps for breath coming from his throat as he lay upon the floor, wetting it with spittle from his parted lips.
"Put him in one of my toys. I will enjoy his song along with the others."
Two black clad Shaiden gaurds moved to pick up the limp boy by the arms and drag him from the room.
The boy never uttered a sound.
Until the guards put him in a coffind shaped device withing which were blades designed to slowly pierce flesh over many long days.
And, as the coffin was closed, a happy giggle came from the man in blood red cloth on the Throne of Sails.
"Bring in my prize!"