ROYALIST
A palpable silence stretched the room link a spilled inkwell over paper. Stricken faces, ones of horror and guilt, stared back at the man—or the ghost, rather. He looked as if he had just crawled from the grave what with his sunken cheeks and bony shoulders. Gone was the king that had stood before them two seasons ago. What was left was a man that looked warped by the sands of time, his fur wiry and flat. Yet still his eyes burned, and with rage.
The hall seemed to still echo with the sound of the double doors crashing open. One of the rusted hinges had finally snapped and the left-most door lay stricken against the stone.
"How dare you all," the ghost of a king hissed, appearing feral in his utter lack of decorum. He stalked forward, sapphire eyes brilliant as two dying stars. "A draft? A draft?" Accusation smoldered within his voice, the tone strong and accusatory despite the husk that it came from.
The fourty-nine congress members stared back. One coughed, many glanced away.
"Your grace," gasped the head of congress, face reddening over the insult. By comparison, he had grown healthy and fat in his role this season. "You are clearly unwell you—" "You poisoned me." Adamh snarled, the sound bouncing around the vaulted ceilings and causing the crows above to alight from their perches. "And you all," he turned, as if casting a net around the whole of the circular room in which he had entered. "You all will burn for this."
Yelps filled the space next as the king's guard, accompanied by a slew of soldiers, marched into the space. As they did, they began apprehending each of the parliament members.
"UNHAND ME!" Howled Forthrun, trying to shake himself free. "These are baseless accusations! Ravings of a mad man!!"
"I'm afriad not," came the cold, clinical voice of General Faust. He had entered quietly at the back of the military procession. "A doctor has verified the poisons found in the medicines, and you, Lord Forthrun, have been found guilty of treason."
A chill wound through the room.
"And the rest of you shall be investigated in turn."
JACOBITE
"This is the justice and cleansing that you will continue to see in our new era," Jacob announced as he leaped from his perch upon an aged stump. He was nimble, his golden fur glistening in the setting sun's light. To the assembled chieftains and clansmen around him, he looked like a vengeful angel. When he stood, his back to the horizon, a halo of molten gold burned behind his head. And, behind him, a burly warrior held down a wolf composed solely of shadow.
"Rook. The terror of Rionnach, the infamous mob boss... is that not you?" A wry smirk curved upon the exiled prince's lips as he turned to the crumbled figure. There was no denying the pride and satisfaction that this scene brought him. For the fugitive, there was none of this brilliance—but there was no remorse either. "Is it me?" The criminal's voice was coy yet strained with pain. Blood dripped down his muzzle from a cut upon his brow.
"It is," came the accusation from Mhairi. The pale princess stepped forward, her unnaturally young features clearly drawn tight from the stress of stepping before so many wolves. "You got the poison for Forthrun. You arranged it all—and we traced it back from every spider and rat you used to get it into the castle." She seemed to shake with rage yet it was so visibly obvious that she was trying to appear composed.
"My dear cousin is right," Jacob crooned, stalking closer to Rook. It was evident he not only enjoyed the pageantry but mastered it, playing the crowd as easily as a musician might play the lute. "And the nightmare you have cast our lands in ends tonight."
Rook began to laugh, the sound muffled from how aggressively he was being pushed into the ground. Soon, the laughs turned to coughs, yet the man's macabre humor was not missed. He had seen several kings and queens by now, had "served" them all within parliament—and he had learned one lesson in all this time. "Rionnach could not be ruled, little prince. Not by a king or queen. No, we are all too bloody selfish." Rook gasped as teeth sank into his scruff, but he continued.
"But enjoy your farce of a war, I will watch it eagerly from below."
A snarl cracked Jacob's composed expression and, shortly after, Rook's blood painted his pale muzzle. So too did it pool upon the ground.
VOXI
"Peace is a priority," Voice called to the assemblage of wolves that had joined her in the Symphony at Ayr. Her expression was warm, pained, and soft. Internally, she worreid for her country—and for the few wolves that had managed to find her. She could not blame her fellow citizens for taking up the sword but it was not right. So many would be ruined by joining this affair!
"But each day, it feels as if we have less and less of a choice. To turn the other cheek is to risk jail, unfair sentencing, and our very lives."
She had thought long and hard about what the proper course of action was. For hours, the answer had stared at her, yet she had avoided it. But she could no longer.
"We must prepare to defend ourselves, our people—but we cannot abide making things worse."
Would they abandon her all? Or would these words speak to them?
Voice stepped down to walk among the wolves that had heard her call and had the ability to join her. "Tomorrow, we begin training—preparing ourselves to protect the villages should soldiers on either side try to take them. The people still have a voice—they should not be conquered by our brothers and sisters." A shiver wound down her spine.
"If war shall come, then we shall be its shield—not its sword."
ROYALIST, JACOBITE & VOXI
no posting here — vignette III of IV
