...COMES AROUND
Tags: Elias Faivre - Diavona Vammor
[Two Weeks Prior - Mountain Range]
Early dawn cast an eerie orange glow on the peaks of the mountains that bordered Silver Crest. Despite the amicable summer weather below, there were harsh winds here, and even harsher terrain. A lone soul trudged silently through the icy river waters. The path had been marked months before and travelled more times than he could count. By all accounts, the journey was a simple one. The river was no deeper than waist height at any given point. They had just neglected to tell him how damn cold it was.
Mortouf Arentier cursed silently. The idea was a genius one, without a doubt. Walking through the river to cover their tracks. It sounded so simple, but the fool who had thought it up didn’t have to wade through the waters himself.
At least he was almost there, and the payoff for his troubles would be worth it. The hands had said so.
According to the map, the river cut through the mountains itself. A cave where it divided into several large pools before joining again to run down toward the ocean. It was the perfect solution. It supplied a source of clean water to several regions, but Les Mains du Châtiment were only interested in one.
House Faivre were the first. The first to bend to the power of a pretender king. They had cowered in his shadow and kissed his boots while far greater houses had stood against him. They had watched on as those houses were crushed. They had done nothing.
A heavy thud echoed from the cave walls as Mortouf shouldered a hollow metal container onto the ground. “Prepare for this…” He mumbled as the thick liquid oozed out in waves. They had gone to great expense to ensure that it was clear. Anything that was coloured would immediately raise suspicion. The few poor souls they’d tested it on had reported it tasteless too. Mortouf had taken them for their word. As the first container emptied, he pushed his weight against a second. Once they were drained the containers would be removed, but Mortouf wouldn’t be here for that.
“Traitors.” He spat out, as the poison splashed into the stream. Throwing up the hood of his midnight blue cloak, he left the containers to do their work. The journey back down the mountains was a perilous one, and he was already losing precious daylight.
[The Present - Unknown Cellar, Silver Crest]
Reports of the sickness had been streaming in for days now.
Headaches followed by fever, vomiting, diarrhoea, dehydration, death.
Just as they had planned it.
As far as they knew, nobody had figured it out yet.
“What word have you from House Faivre?” Mortouf set his eyes on a sleek woman, dressed to the nines in the finery of a noble. “The chief medical officer’s initial estimations were as high as thirty percent.” She replied in a tone as smooth as the silks she wore. “And you?” Sancutair had been an unfortunate sufferer of the pain they had inflicted upon House Faivre, but that mattered little. Any who bowed to the false King were traitors. Their deaths would bring them just as much glory.
However, it seemed that their actions garnered some attention amongst the courts of Lady Diavona. More had joined the movement, and this pleased the hands greatly. The aged guard of Sancutair slowly nodded his head. “Sancutair Majestueux reports indicate forty percent and climbing.” Mortouf sat back with a crooked smile on his thin lips.
“We have done our brethren proud. Continue to monitor the situation. We can only hope to make an impact if lasting damage is done.” Mortouf leant forward in his chair. “Souffrir du châtiment.” He said as he placed a single silver coin in the centre of the table. The surface had been emblazoned with an ebony phrik eye with a golden iris.
“Souffrir du châtiment.” The group spoke in a chorus of voices.
Early dawn cast an eerie orange glow on the peaks of the mountains that bordered Silver Crest. Despite the amicable summer weather below, there were harsh winds here, and even harsher terrain. A lone soul trudged silently through the icy river waters. The path had been marked months before and travelled more times than he could count. By all accounts, the journey was a simple one. The river was no deeper than waist height at any given point. They had just neglected to tell him how damn cold it was.
Mortouf Arentier cursed silently. The idea was a genius one, without a doubt. Walking through the river to cover their tracks. It sounded so simple, but the fool who had thought it up didn’t have to wade through the waters himself.
At least he was almost there, and the payoff for his troubles would be worth it. The hands had said so.
According to the map, the river cut through the mountains itself. A cave where it divided into several large pools before joining again to run down toward the ocean. It was the perfect solution. It supplied a source of clean water to several regions, but Les Mains du Châtiment were only interested in one.
House Faivre were the first. The first to bend to the power of a pretender king. They had cowered in his shadow and kissed his boots while far greater houses had stood against him. They had watched on as those houses were crushed. They had done nothing.
A heavy thud echoed from the cave walls as Mortouf shouldered a hollow metal container onto the ground. “Prepare for this…” He mumbled as the thick liquid oozed out in waves. They had gone to great expense to ensure that it was clear. Anything that was coloured would immediately raise suspicion. The few poor souls they’d tested it on had reported it tasteless too. Mortouf had taken them for their word. As the first container emptied, he pushed his weight against a second. Once they were drained the containers would be removed, but Mortouf wouldn’t be here for that.
“Traitors.” He spat out, as the poison splashed into the stream. Throwing up the hood of his midnight blue cloak, he left the containers to do their work. The journey back down the mountains was a perilous one, and he was already losing precious daylight.
[The Present - Unknown Cellar, Silver Crest]
Reports of the sickness had been streaming in for days now.
Headaches followed by fever, vomiting, diarrhoea, dehydration, death.
Just as they had planned it.
As far as they knew, nobody had figured it out yet.
“What word have you from House Faivre?” Mortouf set his eyes on a sleek woman, dressed to the nines in the finery of a noble. “The chief medical officer’s initial estimations were as high as thirty percent.” She replied in a tone as smooth as the silks she wore. “And you?” Sancutair had been an unfortunate sufferer of the pain they had inflicted upon House Faivre, but that mattered little. Any who bowed to the false King were traitors. Their deaths would bring them just as much glory.
However, it seemed that their actions garnered some attention amongst the courts of Lady Diavona. More had joined the movement, and this pleased the hands greatly. The aged guard of Sancutair slowly nodded his head. “Sancutair Majestueux reports indicate forty percent and climbing.” Mortouf sat back with a crooked smile on his thin lips.
“We have done our brethren proud. Continue to monitor the situation. We can only hope to make an impact if lasting damage is done.” Mortouf leant forward in his chair. “Souffrir du châtiment.” He said as he placed a single silver coin in the centre of the table. The surface had been emblazoned with an ebony phrik eye with a golden iris.
“Souffrir du châtiment.” The group spoke in a chorus of voices.
Suffer the retribution.
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