Threefold Treachery
Tenth Day of the Fifth Month 293 AC
"Today I speak only for my own realm, counting millions of souls in its own right, though rest assured that I have certain acquaintances in the spheres beyond this one who would be quite interested to support whatever agreement we might strike. Though I will not lie to you by proclaiming ties that are yet to be bound," you reply silently, passing the thought as swiftly as you may.
"What manner of millions?" The question is sharp as a sword's edge.
"Not all beings who might be counted subjects were gifted evenly by the Powers."
"This is neither the place nor the hour to answer such questions," you reply.
"Know that the 'Great Sultan's' days are numbered and there will be great opportunities for those who aid in his downfall."
"Others have said those words both boldly and in secret, mountains have been worn smooth, seas have been drunk dry, and still Him of the line of Ibis yet sits upon the Brazen Throne which even the Lords of Hell pay heed to." The answer is at once imperious and tinged with bitterness such as words cannot contain.
"Though a thousand daggers fail to find their mark and the thousand-and-first does, he would perish just the same for it," you scoff.
"Why does he so chase godhood if not from fear of death and ruin? No matter the glories piled at their feet none stands more accursed than the tyrant."
Silence falls within and without, a fragile furtive thing that both of you know must end in decisive action, either to call on the guards to clear you from the chamber, a daunting prospect to be sure, or the far more momentous effort of casting off the yoke of the Brazen Throne. All hangs upon the queen's decision.
You find yourself gripped by an unexpected surge of sympathy for her plight, beyond the trappings of otherworldly magic and uncanny form, into the soul of what it means to rule.
"Let it be so," the thought is as steel. "Bring me the head of Fajir Az Issul, prove your strength and I will set the flames of rebellion... of
vengeance alight."
It happens almost too fast for the eye to follow, one of the golden torques surrounding the queen's midsection begins to burn with a hideous black flame,
curse-working. Time twists upon itself into a perfect knot as you utter a word of unraveling... the dark working fades to embers.
The queen rips the damned gold from her scales with surprising strength, lips pulling back to reveal dagger-sharp fangs black as dragonglass. "Fajir dies at my hand!"
At the declaration the chamber descends into chaos, as three of her own guards suddenly surge towards her, spears lowered to impale her, though Ser Richard and Waymar are swifter, the first bodily hurling one of the attackers against the throne, while the second lops off the head of the flame-kissed spear-tip, leaving the traitor staring dumbly at his new staff.
The third simply vanishes as Dany brushes a wingtip against him and wills him to
lose himself somewhere upon the realm of Earth.
"Protect the queen!" the captain calls desperately, looking around his own subordinates as though unable or
unwilling to believe his own eyes.
"Leave be!" the queen herself hisses as Waymar and Ser Richard make quick work of their outmatched opponents. "We have to reach my son, to ensure that more
assassins will not strike at him!"
The captain flinches visibly at the words. "I offer my life...."
"Your death serves me nothing, fool," the monarch replies. "Fajir's death can wait..."
What do you do?
[] Offer to protect the prince's life
[] Offer to help slay the Efreeti legate
[] Write in
OOC: Sorry this took so long. I was unexpectedly busy.