02-11-2018, 10:48 AM
The sorcerer relaxed in his chair and stared out the window at the view of the town.
How long had it been since the attack? It was hard to tell now, because the majority of the damage had long-since been repaired. In fact, Darkshire looked better than it had in the years since Shang Tsung had arrived. When he had first appeared in the tormented little villa, the place had the resemblance of a Nazi ghetto. Whether it was the business quarter, the slums, or the high-end district, shattered windows and crumbling facades have been commonplace. While those sights could still be spotted in the perpetually depressed districts, they had mostly vanished from everywhere else.
In a sense, the assault had been beneficial in the long run, because most of the damage had been done to the more economically struggling parts of the town. Where the walls had faltered or failed, the adjacent areas had mostly been slums. While some shanty towns had emerged in the area, the majority of the rabble had been slain or driven off in the siege. In the aftermath, Shang had managed to get Dobson to rezone some of the areas to prevent them from becoming landfill of human squalor.
In place of three blocks of tenements near the walls, a visitor could find a large monument (and a very beautiful memorial plaza) to those who had fallen in what was often called the “Battle of Darkshire VI” by the oldest and most cynical members of the population. Those same drunken louts loved to go to pubs and croak about how many demons they’d kill the next time an armed force struck at the walls.
“Every cloud has a silver lining,” Shang whispered to himself as he tapped a finger against the little silver bell that sat on his desk. It had been a Christmas ornament that one of the orphanages had given to him for his various donations two seasons ago. As a prime, the sorcerer had no real need for the salary that the city gave him every month, so he simply gave it to the nearest or grimiest-looking charity. In Darkshire, you could find something in want of free money and goods every few blocks. An entire shelf on his bookcase was reserved for similar trinkets and baubles.
The others that occupied the Council were awful when it came to public relations. With the exception of Dobson and Demetri, the others couldn’t speak their way out of a wet paper bag. At first, Shang had hoped they would all fall victim to some kind of ‘Pale Moors accident’, but after a while, he realized that—despite their charismatic failings—they were actually competent in their assigned roles.
His focus drifting, Shang glanced to the other corner of his desk and smirked at the golden egg that glimmered unnaturally as it rested on its tiny pedestal. There were plenty of days where the sorcerer could just stare at the little artefact for hours as he procrastinated the volume of paperwork that rested near the middle of his workspace. Out of all the times and places that he had lived in (or live through, for that matter), Darkshire was near the top of the list when it came to inane bureaucracy. With the assistance of Shang, Holden, and Hawthorn, Dobson had managed to excise a lot of the fat from the system, but much of it still lingered.
Two years later, and Shang Tsung was still annoyed every time he received an invoice-506 or a form-923. He had once tried a secretary, but after a few weeks of that botched experiment, he deduced that most of her resume had been fabricated. Her only skill had been a symmetrical face and an ample bosom.
With a sigh, the bureaucrat leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The device in the far corner of the room continued to flood the room with the sound of distance thunderstorms. Shang Tsung wasn’t huge into modern technology, but the speaker-slash-robotic slave machine amused him from time to time.
Thump thump!
After all this time, the sorcerer recognized most people by the way in which they knocked on his door. “Omazon, off.” He barked toward the speaker in the corner as he shifted toward the entrance. “It’s unlocked,” he spoke as the heavy mahogany door swung inward. A beat later, Atelos slipped through it pushed it shut. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Captain?”
The Spartan rolled his eyes at his companion’s faux tone and posture. “We’re not at a council meeting,” he said with a sneer as he strode over and dropped himself into one of the chairs on the other side of Shang’s desk. “I sent out the monthly group of outriders.”
“Aye, I remember happily stamping the papers,” Shang replied, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Atelos grinned. “I know that’s your favorite task, ‘Triumvir’ Tsung.”
Now it was the sorcerer who rolled his eyes. “What did they report back? More packs of dire wolves near the Arklays? Or was it ents this time? I hate the ents.”
“If only,” the career soldier replied as he scooped up the bell ornament and shook it a few times. Atelos didn’t have the same level of appreciate for charity cases as his ‘bleeding heart’ ally. After setting down the trinket, the Spartan turned back to address his comrade. “None of them came back. Not a single one. Even the horses didn’t return.”
Shang scowled. “That’s the first group of outriders we’ve lost since—”
“Since the assault by the winged demon. You know, the one who rules Poenari Castle? The one who serves the big bad who still threatens the Moors?”
“Do you think this means another large attack is imminent?”
Atelos stewed over that thought for a few moments before offering a response. “Maybe. Maybe not. The last time, the outriders were killed in an area directly between us and them.” Shang understood the context of them immediately. “This group was almost due north, so that also rules out an unexpected fog bank swallowing them.”
“Drow?” Shang asked.
The Spartan nodded. “That’s my guess. They’ve been quiet ever since that series of raids last Christmas, but the outriders were in their neighborhood.”
“What do you recommend we do, Captain?” Shang inquired formally as both men tried to hide smirks.
“Organize a strike force. Comb the area. Purge anything we find.”
Shang did smile at that. “All right, then we just nee—”
Atelos shook a hand to cut off his friend. The Spartan then reached down and produced a folder filled with a variety of paper. “I’ve taken the liberty to half-assedly prepare all the requisite paperwork for you, Triumvir. I’m sure you’ll want to double-check everything to make sure I didn’t miss any sections. You know how sloppy us jarheads can be when it comes to forms.”
“If I didn’t like you, I’d run your through with my letter opener,” Shang shot back as he reached out and slid the folder toward his end of the desk.
“I’m sure you’d give it your best try,” Atelos chuckled as he stood up and excused himself. The Spartan paused in the doorway and glanced back at his friend. “I might go. You should consider joining as well. You could use the exercise… you’re a little paler than usual.” The soldier then promptly left the room, laughing at his own joke as if he were the funniest man in the Pale Moors.
How long had it been since the attack? It was hard to tell now, because the majority of the damage had long-since been repaired. In fact, Darkshire looked better than it had in the years since Shang Tsung had arrived. When he had first appeared in the tormented little villa, the place had the resemblance of a Nazi ghetto. Whether it was the business quarter, the slums, or the high-end district, shattered windows and crumbling facades have been commonplace. While those sights could still be spotted in the perpetually depressed districts, they had mostly vanished from everywhere else.
In a sense, the assault had been beneficial in the long run, because most of the damage had been done to the more economically struggling parts of the town. Where the walls had faltered or failed, the adjacent areas had mostly been slums. While some shanty towns had emerged in the area, the majority of the rabble had been slain or driven off in the siege. In the aftermath, Shang had managed to get Dobson to rezone some of the areas to prevent them from becoming landfill of human squalor.
In place of three blocks of tenements near the walls, a visitor could find a large monument (and a very beautiful memorial plaza) to those who had fallen in what was often called the “Battle of Darkshire VI” by the oldest and most cynical members of the population. Those same drunken louts loved to go to pubs and croak about how many demons they’d kill the next time an armed force struck at the walls.
“Every cloud has a silver lining,” Shang whispered to himself as he tapped a finger against the little silver bell that sat on his desk. It had been a Christmas ornament that one of the orphanages had given to him for his various donations two seasons ago. As a prime, the sorcerer had no real need for the salary that the city gave him every month, so he simply gave it to the nearest or grimiest-looking charity. In Darkshire, you could find something in want of free money and goods every few blocks. An entire shelf on his bookcase was reserved for similar trinkets and baubles.
The others that occupied the Council were awful when it came to public relations. With the exception of Dobson and Demetri, the others couldn’t speak their way out of a wet paper bag. At first, Shang had hoped they would all fall victim to some kind of ‘Pale Moors accident’, but after a while, he realized that—despite their charismatic failings—they were actually competent in their assigned roles.
His focus drifting, Shang glanced to the other corner of his desk and smirked at the golden egg that glimmered unnaturally as it rested on its tiny pedestal. There were plenty of days where the sorcerer could just stare at the little artefact for hours as he procrastinated the volume of paperwork that rested near the middle of his workspace. Out of all the times and places that he had lived in (or live through, for that matter), Darkshire was near the top of the list when it came to inane bureaucracy. With the assistance of Shang, Holden, and Hawthorn, Dobson had managed to excise a lot of the fat from the system, but much of it still lingered.
Two years later, and Shang Tsung was still annoyed every time he received an invoice-506 or a form-923. He had once tried a secretary, but after a few weeks of that botched experiment, he deduced that most of her resume had been fabricated. Her only skill had been a symmetrical face and an ample bosom.
With a sigh, the bureaucrat leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The device in the far corner of the room continued to flood the room with the sound of distance thunderstorms. Shang Tsung wasn’t huge into modern technology, but the speaker-slash-robotic slave machine amused him from time to time.
Thump thump!
After all this time, the sorcerer recognized most people by the way in which they knocked on his door. “Omazon, off.” He barked toward the speaker in the corner as he shifted toward the entrance. “It’s unlocked,” he spoke as the heavy mahogany door swung inward. A beat later, Atelos slipped through it pushed it shut. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Captain?”
The Spartan rolled his eyes at his companion’s faux tone and posture. “We’re not at a council meeting,” he said with a sneer as he strode over and dropped himself into one of the chairs on the other side of Shang’s desk. “I sent out the monthly group of outriders.”
“Aye, I remember happily stamping the papers,” Shang replied, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Atelos grinned. “I know that’s your favorite task, ‘Triumvir’ Tsung.”
Now it was the sorcerer who rolled his eyes. “What did they report back? More packs of dire wolves near the Arklays? Or was it ents this time? I hate the ents.”
“If only,” the career soldier replied as he scooped up the bell ornament and shook it a few times. Atelos didn’t have the same level of appreciate for charity cases as his ‘bleeding heart’ ally. After setting down the trinket, the Spartan turned back to address his comrade. “None of them came back. Not a single one. Even the horses didn’t return.”
Shang scowled. “That’s the first group of outriders we’ve lost since—”
“Since the assault by the winged demon. You know, the one who rules Poenari Castle? The one who serves the big bad who still threatens the Moors?”
“Do you think this means another large attack is imminent?”
Atelos stewed over that thought for a few moments before offering a response. “Maybe. Maybe not. The last time, the outriders were killed in an area directly between us and them.” Shang understood the context of them immediately. “This group was almost due north, so that also rules out an unexpected fog bank swallowing them.”
“Drow?” Shang asked.
The Spartan nodded. “That’s my guess. They’ve been quiet ever since that series of raids last Christmas, but the outriders were in their neighborhood.”
“What do you recommend we do, Captain?” Shang inquired formally as both men tried to hide smirks.
“Organize a strike force. Comb the area. Purge anything we find.”
Shang did smile at that. “All right, then we just nee—”
Atelos shook a hand to cut off his friend. The Spartan then reached down and produced a folder filled with a variety of paper. “I’ve taken the liberty to half-assedly prepare all the requisite paperwork for you, Triumvir. I’m sure you’ll want to double-check everything to make sure I didn’t miss any sections. You know how sloppy us jarheads can be when it comes to forms.”
“If I didn’t like you, I’d run your through with my letter opener,” Shang shot back as he reached out and slid the folder toward his end of the desk.
“I’m sure you’d give it your best try,” Atelos chuckled as he stood up and excused himself. The Spartan paused in the doorway and glanced back at his friend. “I might go. You should consider joining as well. You could use the exercise… you’re a little paler than usual.” The soldier then promptly left the room, laughing at his own joke as if he were the funniest man in the Pale Moors.