Castle [Exemplary]

[King Ghidorah]

*     *     *

The next morning finds me atop the red granite cliffs, hovering above the river where the rapids meet the edge and thunder down into the void. The spray tickles the soles of my feet, wetting the hems of my sack-cloth trousers. As the sun peeks furtively above the trees at the valley's far-off eastern end, casting its ruddy rays almost cautiously across the land, the water seems to ignite: It flashes scarlet and gold, flickering rubies and diamonds as it plunges over the precipice - a deluge of fleeting, illusory treasures.

I shine brighter; the glow of Camelot's counterfeit star reflects more perfectly off my lustrous metallic scales than it does form the rushing waves. I can see my reflection in the lake far below, a second sunrise perched atop the western rock-face, as though the effervescent waterfall were a wellspring of liquid light and I its very source.

All of Harnburg valley is visible from this vantage, and I'm deeply appreciating the view; it reminds me of the perspective I hope to enjoy when I recast this bucolic vista as a portrait of utter ruin, and beneath the red rays of dawn I can almost imagine its all already burning. It helps to keep me calm as I contemplate the uncertain conclusion of this fascinating, excruciating chapter in my strange new existence. There is however, another reason I'm up here, in a spot that's extremely noisy, highly visible, and nearly totally inaccessible: It's extremely inconvenient for anyone who might want to talk to me.    

By the time Chatterly manages to bother me, the sun's been up for hours, and I've taken to introspectively prodding at the ethereal kinks within my astral wellspring. I've managed to achieve a sensation reminiscent of having a tiny piece of flesh stuck in my teeth, and unable to be dislodged no matter how vigorously I might wiggle my tongue; Attempting to work past it is making cosmic energy spit and ripple across my arms and chest.

With the roar of the water so close at hand, and my back to the grassy plateau atop the cliff, I don't even notice that the Duke's agent has approached until he shoots me. It doesn't hurt - the quarrel shatters against my scales - but when I wheel about in mid-air only see him standing by the river's edge in his fine clothes and traveling cloak, calmly tucking a crossbow away beneath the latter, I have to forcefully remind myself that the horrible man will have thoroughly planned this encounter.  

I make a half-hearted attempt at killing him anyway. However as I anticipated, Chatterly is prepared: I spit a crackling orange bolt of power, but it's intercepted within a meter of the spymaster's chest by a previously-invisible hemispherical barrier, outlined brilliantly by the astral corona of my attack. The lightning's potency dissipates across the immaterial shield  as curved tongues of citrine fire, allowing only the smallest portion of my power to pass through. Chatterly's shirt is barely singed, trailing only  wisps of smoke. The man doesn't even flinch.

He waits until I've alighted upon the clifftop before he speaks to me, pulling back the cowl of his cloak the better to talk face-to-face. I catch a glimpse of the amulet he was wearing last night, just the chain peeking out from beneath his collar. 

"Hello to you as well, King Ghidorah," he says, shouting to be heard above the thunder of the nearby falls. "We have a lot of work to do, so I hope that you've gotten that out of your system."

I approach, new-grown grasses whispering around my ankles until I'm standing directly in front of the spymaster, forcing him to look up in order to meet my eyes. "Just so long as we understand each other," I growl.

"I think that we do," Chatterly says, clasping his hands behind his back and giving me a very calculated sort of smile. "You want to kill me, but you won't, because you're not certain you can, or what will happen if you succeed. I want you to attend the Duke's gala without killing anyone or starting any unwanted wars. You want to go to the Duke's Gala and meet the Lady Isolda - and after that, we both agree that you should rampage as much as your blackened heart desires, the only point of contention being when, and at whose expense."

I glower at him and clench my fists. He's mostly right. "Why are you here, Chatterly?"

"Details," he says, " remember? If you're to attend this party, you're going to need to learn some new skills: How to eat with a fork; How to wear shoes; How to talk to pig-headed, self-important  noblemen without ripping their heads from their shoulders. In short, a crash-course in etiquette."

A cloud passes over the sun, stealing some of the luster from the spymasters oily hair. A furtive wind creeps past, carrying a scent of water and old ashes. I stare at Chatterly, incredulous; I'm familiar with the concept of etiquette (a stuttering, inconstant little word) but while I certainly demand respect  my recent  unprecedented restraint of my aesthetic yen to destroy represents a revolution in politeness on my own part that I doubt I'll be able to top. The fact that I've allowed so many human beings to leave my august presence alive and with their mental equilibrium intact has already been a mind-boggling display of magnanimous courtesy.

"You want me to learn and follow all the pointless social rituals you use to elevate the weak," I venture, no longer certain that I'll be able to feign compliance, "Is that it?" 

Chatterly shakes his head. The sunlight returns. "Hardly. I don't expect the impossible. The fact that you're a Prime, and that you claim a royal title should combine well enough with your remarkable stature to allow you a great deal of latitude as far as such minutiae are concerned. No, dear fellow: leaving aside the strategic background, and the subtle intrigues, and the million other things with which you should be familiar before you set foot at a party like this one, I'll settle for teaching you to behave as though you have, at some point, had to conduct yourself like a man."