01-19-2018, 03:54 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-21-2018, 02:05 PM by King Ghidorah.
Edit Reason: Janitorial duty
)
An urgent pounding on the varnished door made both of them jump. A muffled voice called urgently from the hall outside:"Your Grace, is everything alright? We heard shouting, and there's broken glass in the courtyard!"
The Duke cleared his throat. "All is well. I am engaged in a conference with the lady Isolda, is all. You may return to your posts, guardsmen."
There came the sound of muffled discussion, and then quickly retreating footsteps. William Conrad returned his attention to his niece, facing her squarely in the middle of the room. "They're terrified of you, you know," he said.
She nodded, wiping her face with a handkerchief produced from up her sleeve. Something her uncle had mentioned earlier was beginning to bother her. "I know. They're not entirely wrong, is the thing... what was that you said about a gala?"
The Duke bit his lip. He wished he hadn't mentioned the gala, but if Isolda was going to involve herself in these matters then she likely would have found out regardless. "A diplomatic event has been arranged at our country house, in two weeks time. Officially it's in honor of our new 'champion'. Of course, the true purpose is to provide a venue for our neighbors and associates to join in choreographing the public response to our impending annexation of the Shatterdun highlands. It will also serve as a coming-out party of sorts, although Ghidorah will have to be managed very carefully if there are to be no casualties. "
Isolda watched his face, her eyebrows raised expectantly.
Her uncle continued, adding a small formal bow: "You are, naturally, welcome to attend."
It had been a long time since Isolda had sat on the slate-tiled roof of Castle Harnburg's Northwest tower - not since she'd begun to work on her garden. The rooftop had the advantage of being isolated and sturdy; It was nearly ten stories high, with nothing she could damage if she lost control of her passengers, and the view of the valley was amazing: perfect for escaping from the threat of other people. Unfortunately, it also lacked engaging distractions, and that made it a less-than-ideal place to go in order to escape from herself.
As the sun rose towards noon in the clear blue sky, the rooftop grew warmer. In a couple of hours the tiles would be unpleasantly hot, but right now they smelled damp, retaining some of their night-time chill; Isolda could feel their pleasant coolness through the fabric of her emerald dress.
A necromantic matrix of spectral power swirled around her; Dead faces twisted, smoky and half-visible in the mid-morning light, demanding a reason, a target, a purchase for their mummified anger - and found nothing but slowly warming stone.
The heiress didn't want to go to the gala. There was a time, years ago, when she'd loved that sort of thing, the intrigue and energy, but she'd been a very different person then; since the founding of Harnburg Castle, Isolda had only attended her uncle's court functions out of a vague sense of obligation towards maintaining a certain minimum profile. She especially didn't want to go to this one because Ghidorah was going to be there, and one of her dearest wishes was to keep a healthy distance from the vicious golden Prime at all times.
A gust of wind whispered down the valley, billowing her hair across her bony shoulders in a futile attempt to dislodge her from her perch.
Unfortunately, she didn't think she had any choice but to attend. Even if she were to attempt to retreat back into her garden, the looming shadow of what she was increasingly convinced was her uncle's greatest folly would be there, hovering in the back of her mind, every doubt echoed by the spirits she carried; she'd taken a step out of her comfortable shroud of isolation, and it would be almost as painful at this point to go back as to go forward.
To her multi-layered surprise, that made her furious. For Isolda, such jagged anger was dangerous - but also tremendously powerful. Usually she quashed it, avoiding the subject until the emotion was manageable. This time, she forced it down into a disused emotional pocket, saving it for later.
If she went to the gala there was a very good chance she'd have to leave early for the safety of the other guests - but if she didn't go her ignorance (which had not only begun to rapidly lose its comfort-value but also become increasingly dangerous) would only increase. Besides, some of the ambassadors who attended her uncle's court couldn't see past their own intrigues. What if one of them accidentally angered the guest of honor? Excepting Mothra, and barring the sudden arrival of some mysterious heroic Prime (which was always a possibility, although a remote one) Isolda was the only person in the area with both the power and the will to stop Ghidorah - and she doubted that Mothra's arrival would be make anyone safer.
The wind changed direction, ruffling her dress and blowing her hair back in her face. It occurred to Isolda as she was clearing the unruly tangle out of her eyes that she was trying very hard to talk herself into going to this party. After all, Chatterly would certainly have contingencies in place to prevent Ghidorah from going rogue...
... but she'd never liked Chatterly. He was certainly very good at what he did, but even so he thought far too highly of himself, and his ruthlessness was less than charming.
"Bugger," she said.
Beside her right elbow, two tiny voices gasped in unison, shocked at her language. Isolda was so surprised that she nearly lost her balance, half-scrambling on the slick tiles as she reached for a weapon that she no longer wore.
"We are sorry!" said Mothra's two miniature servants, bowing apologetically. The six-inch-high women were much cleaner than the last time Isolda had seen them. Their colorful dresses had clearly been washed, contrasting brilliantly with the slate and the sky, but their tiny hats were missing. "We did not mean to startle you!"
The noblewoman stared. Typically, right about now she would be regretting having blown them both up by accident, but for some reason her ghosts seemed to be ignoring them.
"That's... alright." Isolda said, recomposing herself with considerable effort. She pressed her hands together to keep them from shaking. "How did you get up here?"
"We climbed,"explained the twin fairies. "It was very difficult! Have you spoken with your uncle?"
Isolda shook her head. "I'm afraid he's made up his mind. He's taking Mothra's interference in his affairs very personally. If she moves against Ghidorah in the open, I fear that next time your mistress will be walking into a trap."
Both fairies' faces fell. "That is terrible news! But.... thank you for your efforts on our behalf. And Mothra thanks you as well!"
The tiny women bowed again. Isolda gave them a placating wave. "Please, don't. This is as much my problem as it is either of yours - or Mothra's. I'll do my part in solving it - but I should tell you, I won't see my uncle harmed, nor any of our serfs." She turned her gaze out across the valley's villages and hills, rolling up and away towards the forests in the East. "I'm firmly against Ghidorah - but although I've an odd fondness for you both, I'm on Harnburg's side, not yours."
"As you wish. Regardless, we will speak to you again. Until then we wish you good fortune, Lady Isolda!"
When the heiress looked back, the tiny women were gone. Her eyes narrowed.
Good fortune or no, this was going to involve a lot more than luck.
The Duke cleared his throat. "All is well. I am engaged in a conference with the lady Isolda, is all. You may return to your posts, guardsmen."
There came the sound of muffled discussion, and then quickly retreating footsteps. William Conrad returned his attention to his niece, facing her squarely in the middle of the room. "They're terrified of you, you know," he said.
She nodded, wiping her face with a handkerchief produced from up her sleeve. Something her uncle had mentioned earlier was beginning to bother her. "I know. They're not entirely wrong, is the thing... what was that you said about a gala?"
The Duke bit his lip. He wished he hadn't mentioned the gala, but if Isolda was going to involve herself in these matters then she likely would have found out regardless. "A diplomatic event has been arranged at our country house, in two weeks time. Officially it's in honor of our new 'champion'. Of course, the true purpose is to provide a venue for our neighbors and associates to join in choreographing the public response to our impending annexation of the Shatterdun highlands. It will also serve as a coming-out party of sorts, although Ghidorah will have to be managed very carefully if there are to be no casualties. "
Isolda watched his face, her eyebrows raised expectantly.
Her uncle continued, adding a small formal bow: "You are, naturally, welcome to attend."
* * *
It had been a long time since Isolda had sat on the slate-tiled roof of Castle Harnburg's Northwest tower - not since she'd begun to work on her garden. The rooftop had the advantage of being isolated and sturdy; It was nearly ten stories high, with nothing she could damage if she lost control of her passengers, and the view of the valley was amazing: perfect for escaping from the threat of other people. Unfortunately, it also lacked engaging distractions, and that made it a less-than-ideal place to go in order to escape from herself.
As the sun rose towards noon in the clear blue sky, the rooftop grew warmer. In a couple of hours the tiles would be unpleasantly hot, but right now they smelled damp, retaining some of their night-time chill; Isolda could feel their pleasant coolness through the fabric of her emerald dress.
A necromantic matrix of spectral power swirled around her; Dead faces twisted, smoky and half-visible in the mid-morning light, demanding a reason, a target, a purchase for their mummified anger - and found nothing but slowly warming stone.
The heiress didn't want to go to the gala. There was a time, years ago, when she'd loved that sort of thing, the intrigue and energy, but she'd been a very different person then; since the founding of Harnburg Castle, Isolda had only attended her uncle's court functions out of a vague sense of obligation towards maintaining a certain minimum profile. She especially didn't want to go to this one because Ghidorah was going to be there, and one of her dearest wishes was to keep a healthy distance from the vicious golden Prime at all times.
A gust of wind whispered down the valley, billowing her hair across her bony shoulders in a futile attempt to dislodge her from her perch.
Unfortunately, she didn't think she had any choice but to attend. Even if she were to attempt to retreat back into her garden, the looming shadow of what she was increasingly convinced was her uncle's greatest folly would be there, hovering in the back of her mind, every doubt echoed by the spirits she carried; she'd taken a step out of her comfortable shroud of isolation, and it would be almost as painful at this point to go back as to go forward.
To her multi-layered surprise, that made her furious. For Isolda, such jagged anger was dangerous - but also tremendously powerful. Usually she quashed it, avoiding the subject until the emotion was manageable. This time, she forced it down into a disused emotional pocket, saving it for later.
If she went to the gala there was a very good chance she'd have to leave early for the safety of the other guests - but if she didn't go her ignorance (which had not only begun to rapidly lose its comfort-value but also become increasingly dangerous) would only increase. Besides, some of the ambassadors who attended her uncle's court couldn't see past their own intrigues. What if one of them accidentally angered the guest of honor? Excepting Mothra, and barring the sudden arrival of some mysterious heroic Prime (which was always a possibility, although a remote one) Isolda was the only person in the area with both the power and the will to stop Ghidorah - and she doubted that Mothra's arrival would be make anyone safer.
The wind changed direction, ruffling her dress and blowing her hair back in her face. It occurred to Isolda as she was clearing the unruly tangle out of her eyes that she was trying very hard to talk herself into going to this party. After all, Chatterly would certainly have contingencies in place to prevent Ghidorah from going rogue...
... but she'd never liked Chatterly. He was certainly very good at what he did, but even so he thought far too highly of himself, and his ruthlessness was less than charming.
"Bugger," she said.
Beside her right elbow, two tiny voices gasped in unison, shocked at her language. Isolda was so surprised that she nearly lost her balance, half-scrambling on the slick tiles as she reached for a weapon that she no longer wore.
"We are sorry!" said Mothra's two miniature servants, bowing apologetically. The six-inch-high women were much cleaner than the last time Isolda had seen them. Their colorful dresses had clearly been washed, contrasting brilliantly with the slate and the sky, but their tiny hats were missing. "We did not mean to startle you!"
The noblewoman stared. Typically, right about now she would be regretting having blown them both up by accident, but for some reason her ghosts seemed to be ignoring them.
"That's... alright." Isolda said, recomposing herself with considerable effort. She pressed her hands together to keep them from shaking. "How did you get up here?"
"We climbed,"explained the twin fairies. "It was very difficult! Have you spoken with your uncle?"
Isolda shook her head. "I'm afraid he's made up his mind. He's taking Mothra's interference in his affairs very personally. If she moves against Ghidorah in the open, I fear that next time your mistress will be walking into a trap."
Both fairies' faces fell. "That is terrible news! But.... thank you for your efforts on our behalf. And Mothra thanks you as well!"
The tiny women bowed again. Isolda gave them a placating wave. "Please, don't. This is as much my problem as it is either of yours - or Mothra's. I'll do my part in solving it - but I should tell you, I won't see my uncle harmed, nor any of our serfs." She turned her gaze out across the valley's villages and hills, rolling up and away towards the forests in the East. "I'm firmly against Ghidorah - but although I've an odd fondness for you both, I'm on Harnburg's side, not yours."
"As you wish. Regardless, we will speak to you again. Until then we wish you good fortune, Lady Isolda!"
When the heiress looked back, the tiny women were gone. Her eyes narrowed.
Good fortune or no, this was going to involve a lot more than luck.