[Main Chapter] Blood and Ashes [Exposition]

Silas Hawke makes some important decisions.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Mon Mar 25, 2019 2:07 pm

39th of Bethas, 2719
The King's Bedchamber, Old Rose Harbor
It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.


Niccoló Machiavelli
Athin sucking sound issued from the corners of Silas Hawke's mouth as he inhaled noisily on the luxurious cigar. It was foreign, expensive, and, quite frankly, revolting.

"'igher, rosh." He mumbled almost comically, his voice muffled by tobacco smoke and the gnarled end of hand-rolled, overly-spiced Hoxian tobacco he really should have given up on already. Rinata obliged, massaging his neck and shoulders with her hard, bony knuckles. Hawke sniffed. Mirella would have been better for this, but she was busy.

He glanced down once again at the wrinkled, twice-crumpled, nearly destroyed piece of parchment that had been brought to him earlier that morning, the unwelcome visit having violently roused him from sleep. Silas frowned deeply.

"I um dishpleesht." He mused aloud, still half-tangled in bed sheets and hardly dressed.

Rinata reached over and unceremoniously plucked the cigar from his mouth—it was a bold move and she could have honestly fucking cared less. She extinguished it roughly without a hint of shame against the nightstand, the Henchwitch completely unconcerned about the consequences before returning her fingers to his neck and hissing against his ear, green eyes watching the spoke rise from the waxed wood, "You're whatnow, m' Lord?"

"Displeased." Hawke repeated with a twitch of his well-manicured eyebrow.

"That's an understatement, innit?" The ginger witch smirked, nodding to the far side of the room. A smashed vase had littered the ground with fragments of priceless porcelain, and the dead body of the poor runner who'd delivered the note just a handful of hours ago did nothing to improve the overall decor of the luxurious bedchamber the King claimed as his one of his own within his Palace. She dug in harder, dropped her hands lower, trying to work out the terrible kinks in her King's back as if she was her sister Yulina torturing a captive to make them squeal everything they knew.

"Clockin' hell!" Silas groaned appreciatively, aware that the matter at hand prevented him from enjoying the massage as much as he otherwise would have, as he was otherwise known to indulge in far more—

"—my finest poppy fields." He finally whispered regretfully, his aristocratic tone carrying an undercurrent of something savage. The witch behind him shuddered, knowing full well how many men would die because of this grave insult. "Ablaze. Burned Up. Ashes. A year's worth of profits! Gone in a flash before the first clockin' bloom. An' whatever they did—those fields are ruined. This year's feelin' like a sinkin' ship before we've even finished chartin' the course. Shit."

"Let's not forget," Rinata added darkly, hands drifting in ways that would have perhaps been seen as inappropriate had they been in public, leaning to drape her arms over the King's bare shoulders and bring her lips against the silver that decorated the curve of his ear, "the part where they killed the lookouts and the farmers. Leaving their blackened bodies there for everyone to see."

"Ye would bring up the fuckin' losses, Rin darlin'." He said loftily, rolling his eyes but not leaning away. "Ne matter. Men can be replaced. But those fields were worth millions—where the devil is Remses?"

Rinata glared out the window at the sparkling sea at the sound of his name.

"Out." She said, teeth against the lobe of the sly wick's ear, slipping lower toward his neck before one bejeweled hand slid upward to curl ring-laden fingers into her hair and hold her still.

"Well, I need someone to yell at, godsdamnit." He grumbled, his voice full of exasperation. Tilting his head, his dark eyes roamed her face as if he was considering the offer of her distraction. "An' I ent in the mood."

She glowered, unable to look him in the eye. His voice bordered on the playful, teasing, as though he thought it was all very amusing to deny her invitation. Rinata had known Hawke long enough to know when he was boiling over with rage and irritation, but she also knew how to diffuse the situation when he allowed it. He was, apparently, beyond wanting a warm body against his to help him think.

"Fine, Silas. Please, let me just go find him for you. Shall I?" The Henchwitch sighed, a petulant disappointment creasing into the deep tan of her pleasing face, reluctantly sliding away from behind him, trailing her long nails over his arm as if to chide him for his willing mistake.

Waving his hand lazily in acknowledgment of the tease, Hawke turned once more to the window, looking down at his Harbor. As the door clicked shut with far more force than was actually necessary behind the swaying, angry hips of Rinata, the hardly dressed King of the Underworld had a sudden thought.

It would not do to stay forever in his gilded throne; clearly, it was not working to reign from on high. He did not become King for his ability to sit and chew expensive cigars, nor was he blind to the suffering of his town's economy. He'd built this Kingdom from the ground up, fertilizing the Harbor's once-farrow soil with the blood of his enemies, planting the seeds of trade with his own two hands all those years ago. Had he really grown so soft and fat on his own profits?

Had he really allowed luxury and power to lure him into such a compromising position, like some stupid whore?

His real talents were clearly necessary again.

The door to his bed-chamber opened slowly, unexpectedly, and the dark-eyed wick looked up with a sharp inhale, clearly prepared for Remses. His jaw clenched instead, gaze narrowing as he breathed out through clenched teeth. Illuminated by the ruddy light of his massive fireplace, a lithe figure cast a shadow onto his newly bloodstained carpet.

"We must go to ground." Whispered the shadow's voice.

"I know. I agree." Sighed Silas with an almost tangible reluctance, the weight of the decision he'd avoided making for months settling in his chest.

"To Vienda."

"Oes."

"To meet the one who knows so much about the Drain. No more sending other bodies that keep floating back to you like that one." The dark figure jerked their head in the direction of the crumpled corpse.

"I was thinkin' the same."

"It's time to help him achieve his own goals, so that he may be more inclined to give aid in the future."

The man in the doorway smirked.

"Ye know me so well." Purred Silas, in a sly, friendly tone of voice that he rarely used around anyone.

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