Eastern Threshold The Hundred Kingdoms 5th Moon of Descending Wood, Venus' Day, 768 S taring blankly, the young man tipped the glass of wine towards his gracious host. Ten-Sons-and-Pondering was the man's name - some noble rich off slave-trade and opiates thanks to the Guild. There was, indeed, some conversation that he could have been paying attention to, but he couldn't find the energy to partake, merely nodding, or absently agreeing. The conversation wasn't important in the grand scheme of things anyway. No, Ten-Sons was one of the many who disturbed the natural order of things, who made Creation violent because he wished for riches with no labour. His opium plantation was a useful tool to the Guild, one that he kept in good order to ensure that they never exacted the price of such an endeavour from his flesh, or the flesh of his family. He kept his slaves sated, with food, roof and drug. Ensuring that they could never leave his service, or the service of any other master he might sell them to. While he was sure the conversation was enthralling, he had no such anecdotes to share with his compatriot this evening. He never lived the lap of luxury, or could forego hard labour. No, the very fact that he was here this evening, sharing a fine wine with such a digusting individual was his work. To chat up this fine individual - to keep the peace and ensure that no more violence came to this town. That was his work. It was unfortunate, that he served as glorified bodyguard to a man who didn't even understand that his life was in danger. To be fair, though, even he wasn't really sure the kind of danger. His mission had been left relatively unclear - "One blossom is cut before harvest, and fields are razed in response. Ensure the blossom is not cut." He sighed at the thought of what it meant. The man had many sons, but no daughters. It was hard to know which of his slaves, of all their various ages, warmed his bed at night when his wife or mistress wouldn't. Even a would-be assassin wouldn't know which to pick to set forth a war. So here he sat, pretending to be an old friend come to catch up. He did what he could, payed attention in between the words, and asked the right questions to get himself more information, but nothing came forth. There was no one who would strike a blow so heavy that would cause a single nobleman to rise up in anger against his people. Another sip from his glass, and the young man excused himself, stepping away from the great oaken table in the dining hall. "As you wish, Wrin. Consider my house yours, friend. You are free to command the halls, and the many pleasures they may bring you." The smile was sickening, but to Ten-Sons, he was speaking to a dear friend from long ago. Didn't matter who 'Wrin' was, or where he came from, something told that he was important to Ten-Sons, and that it had been ages since they last saw each other. Wrin nodded to Ten-Sons in acknowledgement of the statement. The mind was that of an young man, but the body that Ten-Sons witnessed, it was that of an old man, "I'm afraid I might have no use for your pleasures, friend. Weak knees and my back keeps me awake in pain most nights." Wrin swore he'd heard one of the elders say something to that effect before - he knew better though. Most of them commanded power barely fathomable by him at this age. Slipping into the hall before Ten-Sons could offer more from his pleasure pit, Wrin headed towards the stairwell, looking for his room for the night - or however long he'd have to stay to put off the 'razing'. As he headed down towards the stairs, a clattering came from the kitchen at the far end of the hall. There was a muffled scream, before the door splintered and cracked. Turning, he sprinted down the hall - his speed belying his true nature, rather than the one he had donned to confuse Ten-Sons. As he neared the door slowly opened, and a figure stepped out, wrapped in a heavy cloak, stained with blood. A covered hand scraped against the wall, fingers folded in, and a hand gripping at their gut. Holding out a hand, Wrin moved to help the figure, "What is it? Is there anyone else?" He moved closer, before noting that the cloak was pulled up as a hood, obscuring the face of the servant, "What about you, are you seriously injured?" The figure shifted a little closer as Wrin took up a guarded stance, unsure of what to expect. "Apologies, Vizier. I was never one for subtlety." The figure's fingers clicked, one by one, revealing the brass talons that capped the final knuckles. Eyes widening at the statement, Wrin backstepped, unsure of what now was before him. As he studied the figure again he noted that it wasn't just parts of the cloak that were slick with blood - all of it was, as though raw flesh were exposed underneath. Not only that, but the size of the hand, to the bulk of the body was strange - he should have been at least two heads taller with the width of his shoulders, and his hands - they should be able to grip and crush a grown man's skull - but it wasn't true. The body was warped, wrong... "...W-what are you?" He stepped back again as the taloned fingers drew back the hood, revealing long blue hair, and red eyes. Atop his head, floating was a spectral crown - three spires of green lines, slashed through by a fourth, curving and creating the look of a crown floating just before his head - above where a caste mark might have hovered. "The Harvest. Vizier. The harvest ..."
