An Imperfect Circle
From Atlantic Roleplay Wiki
Twilight came as it had always come. The weary sun melted softly into the west seas, casting its brilliant fading rays still harsh upon the sandy isle. The lapping waves seemed to whisper in unison with the flutter of the ocean wind against the mainsails of the pleasure ships berthed in the harbor. In the distance, upon the cerulean horizon framed by the gargantuan waning moon of Felucca, the retreating sun reflected off the billowing white sails of several ships of an incoming navy. The cheery peoples of the island went about the finalization of their daily routines, the nightly partygoers and tourists readied for the evening's ongoing festivities, none aware of the travesties that were to take place in the coming hours.
The harbormaster saw it first. Three formation lined galleons closing in towards the east docks at a quickly determined break-neck speed. The stout middle-aged harbormaster rubbed his grungy beard as he flipped through a journal in the dockhouse. Three ships. This late in the day, they were not pleasure cruises returning from a tour of the islands. He recast his floor mounted telescope towards the ships, and was able to at last make out the golden emblem of Stormhaven. Strange, he thought, and seating himself at his desk, he penned a two brief letters to Lord Braek and Mayor GreyPawn.
Dear sirs,
It seems that The Princess of Stormhaven's entourage will arrive shortly. Had we been informed we could have hosted a reception for her. I beseech thee both to keep us up to date on incoming royalty, mi'lords.
Sincerely, Anson Mishta Nujel'm Harbormaster
Sealing the letters, he struck the hanging bell at which a courier arrived in minutes to spirit the communiques off. Out the window, troops standing on-deck could be seen readying at attention upon the three galleons, who were less than a stone throw away from the twightlight luster of the white sandy shore.
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The lantern light spilled from the windows of the villa onto the green grass covered in evening dew. The party had been loud and wild, not dissimilar from the man in who's honor it was thrown. The pungeant scent of fire roasted almonds and cinnamon intertwined in the night air with the aroma of spiced sweet meats and the miscelleneous other delicacies that lined the slate councilchamber table. The feasting was waning as GreyPawn told stories of his youth and Sagehood, whom not one of his close friends present had the pleasure of hearing for the first time. "...ran screaming from the damned thing, yelling at the top of my lungs 'Get it off! Get it off!'" GreyPawn finished with a loud laugh echoed by the grinning faces of the officials of the new Buc's Den, before going back to sipping at his chilled apple cider. Behind him and upon the north wall stood a pile of beautifully decorated jeweled boxes and wrapped containers; presents for the Mayor's one-hundred and eighty-forth birthday. The party had waned into the evening, wide-smiling throngs of people coming and going through the double doors of the Councilchambers. The aged Mayor looked only in his late forties, the effects of the magick being solidified in the year since they were laid upon him.
A newlywed couple of Moonglow Nobles were departing out the front doors when a man clothed in the typical Moonglow blue cloak of MTC jumped through their close embrace and cautiously approached Mayor GreyPawn. Placing in the old mage's hand directly, the blue-clad courier marched u-turn out the door through which he had come. GreyPawn unfurled the scrolls carefully, examining the first one address to him directly, from the harbormaster of Nujel'm. Quirking a brow, he shuffled the open parchments to the second letter.
An expression of abject sorrow crept over the Mayor's face. In the councilchambers the music stopped, the chatting came to a slow murmer before ceasing altogether, curious eyes of the partygoers turning towards the lithe visage of GreyPawn. In disbelief, he read the hastily written note again, and yet a third time.
Prince Malicite is ill. Stormhaven troops have landed with the Knights of Sosaria and taken the palace by force. Send help.
Lord Commander Braek
GreyPawn's hands fell limp at his sides. The brown ceramic mug of cider shattered into a thousand pieces as it struck the dark sandstone floor of the chamber. The winds picked up slightly, blowing in through the open windows from the shoreline closeby. Those closest could hear the faint whisper he uttered. The others would find out soon enough.
"...why?"