Men who play games of war and soldiers born from circumstance...
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Scroll 01 : 01
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Pupiless, rust colored eyes close to the world as Io’fayl lounges back on plush pillows made of burgundy silk strewn about the floor of her marble terrace. A strong note of orange light filter in behind closed lids as the suns before her finally begins to set, signaling that another day is drawing to a close. She had sent her intelligence officers out days before hand in a search for accurate information about a solider that seemed to be catching the attention of all those he crossed paths with; the ones who’d managed to live to speak of the encounters, that is, and she’s beginning to grow a little impatient for their return. The sounds of shifting fabric catches her attention as her Harbinger moves forward to settle at her side, kneeling down subordinately and bowing his head to allow his Queen’s clawed fingers to stroke gently through his tawny hair. If what she hears is along the lines of what she hopes; that a stronger warrior has emerged, then this one’s days are numbered. Her eyes open and she looks down towards the man to her front, sliding her fingers over to catch just beneath his jaw in order to lift his head and bring his bright green gaze up to meet hers. Love is what she sees reflected back at her in Tir’snin’s eyes, nothing but undying love and devotion. Her own eyes however, reflect only that of one who enjoys a pet and she will never return his feelings, nor could she ever care to. Love for her is a far too dangerous of an emotion to feel. “My Queen?” Tir’snin looks up at her questioningly when her stare becomes blank as her thoughts begin to drift far away from him. “My Queen, is there anything you desire?” The words he speaks pull her quickly back and she removes her hand from underneath his chin, placing it down to her side while her rust colored gaze shifts back towards the suns as they continue to set far off in the distance. “No,” she says matter-of-factly, the coldness in her tone clear. “Leave me.”  Io’fayl emerges from her bath, warm water slowly dripping down her curved frame as she steps out into the waning light of her room. Tir’snin moves in quickly behind his Mistress with a robe made of silk and she takes it without even a glance given towards him as she continues out towards her bed across the cold, red marble floor. This one was becoming too subdued, too domesticated. Tir’snin used to be a ruthless warrior; he would bow to no one… until that is, the day he was invited to become the next of her Harbingers. Now he is nothing but a trained lapdog. The fire inside him is gone, quelled by years of subordination and the obsessive need for her attention. Since she had begun keeping them by her side always, they have all proved this way in the end. This is not what she wants but she has no other choice because she simply cannot trust them out on their own... that was a mistake she’d made once and one she will never make again. And yet despite her unwillingness to allow them to be free, they grow tiresome so quickly; most of them lasting only a few short years before they become nothing more than domesticated dogs completely devoid of that original spark of life she’d seen in them to begin with. Slaves, she scoffs to herself, which is something she doesn’t want. If she wanted true slaves, she could simply purchase them; she wouldn’t need to invite them to take the most coveted position by her side. Being her Harbinger is a privilege, one set aside for only those who are able to command true respect. Those who are capable of leading whole armies to victory simply by showing their faces, those who have created a name for themselves out there in the war fields, those who instill fear in the hearts of all men with the blood they have spilled; her strongest and most elite. They are a warning to all others of what lies ahead. This creature before her, doting on her every move, is not a warning; he is a disappointment, as were the last two before him and she grows weary of his presence… just as she had the ones that came before. A strong knock at the door to her chambers draws her attention and before Tir’snin has a chance to rise up in order to answer; Io’fayl is on her feet and walking towards the entrance, the robe she wears falling open and loosely away from her shoulders. Long, feminine fingers pull the heavy door open with ease and she looks down at her intelligence gatherer, his height barely to her hips as blue, serpentine eyes regard her with nervous anticipation. She waits for only a moment as the silence stretches on between them before she breaks it with a tone filled with impatient annoyance. “It is unlike you, Sav’real, to take longer than a day to gather the information I seek…” The small creature bows his head instantly in subordination, his bird-like talons clicking nervously on the marble as he pulls his light blue, feathered wings closer to his body. Long ago, back before she’d gained her own territories and became the Warlord she is today she’d happened upon this one’s kind. She’d learned quickly that they were highly intelligent and knew immediately she could use that to her advantage, which she did. There are so few like his kind left roaming this world, but they have always served her and done so greatly. Like her Harbingers, they are known on sight as to whom they belong to and what their purpose is. “F-forgive me, my Queen. This information was not easy to gather. Much about him is unknown and the rumors served to be something that required extensive follow up to verify…” Sav’real glances up quickly, his eyes dropping once more as her expression begins to shift into anger and impatience. She will not like what he’s about to tell her and in truth he’d rather not say it, but knowing his Mistress as he does he understands that the wrath she’d bestow on him from a lack of information would be far greater than the information itself so he decides he should just get on with it. “H-his name is Kso’ppghiel. His movements are sporadic; he does not follow any loyalties or fight for any one army, mostly jumping between smaller clans. The ones he has fought with fear him, but he is very capable on his own so they generally let him come and go since he provides them with a strong advantage when he is there. He was not trained by any army and those who have met him do not know his origins so… it required following his patterns backwards for almost a decade to gain this information.” “He fights solitary with two longswords and he seems to care little for his own safety or that of any army he happens to be with. When his weapons fail him…” He pauses. “Which they rarely do… he resorts to spoken magic… something of which he is also highly effective with.” Sav’real hesitates before continuing. “He is the only son belonging to a farming community, he had only one sibling, a younger sister who was killed-” “I do not care of his family.” Io’fayl interrupts abruptly. “Do not bother me with those details, Sav’real. Tell me only of his current nature.” “My Queen…” Sav’real continues with a nervous clicking of his talons. “You may.” Io’fayl raises an eyebrow but nods just a little, indicating that he may continue. “I …did not believe it until I met him. I thought it impossible in truth, as you may also but I traced his origin back to his place of birth once I had heard the rumors that surrounded him. His family did not survive your last attack on his village close to ten years ago and he was the one who slaughtered most of the army you sent to do the job. His father was an ex-general who served under you for many years…” The heavy wood of Io’fayl’s chamber door creaks as her fingers tighten their grip on it, causing the small creature before her to flinch and halt his words. Io’fayl’s voice turns ice cold. “The name, Sav’real. I want his name.” “…Mithghiiel.” The instant the word leaves his lips, his Queen’s finger snap into the heavy wood as she clenches down, breaking off small pieces with her grip that fall to the marble floor in splinters. The guards stationed just outside her chamber slowly begin to inch away from her immediate presence, fearful of what’s to come. “Impossible.” She whispers, her voice barely audible. “I-I thought so as well.” Sav’real continues, shaking in fear and fighting every instinct he has to run. “I triple checked my information… and then I saw Kso’ppghiel. My Queen, there is no doubt he is Mithghiiel’s son.” Io’fayl stands in hard silence for several long and agonizing moments while Sav’real continues to do everything in his power to keep himself from bolting in fear, an action he knows would certainly earn his death, before she finally turns her back to him with an eerily calm look painting her pretty features. “Fetch Bal’thial.” She demands without turning around moments before she slams the door shut behind her as all those on the opposite side to sigh long sighs of relief...
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