The Prince of Tatters

The Prince of Tatters

The Killing Shade
Character Profile
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The party goers filled the room like many phantasms. Each wore a mask and many of them carried wicked intentions underneath their visages, some of whom The Prince knew better than others. The masquerade was being thrown by Praetorian Lovidicus Kiringi, a prominent figure in Naya Vapna and a high ranking member of the Brahman Magesterium. There were some names in the material world that stuck with you. Names of people so powerful in life that they would echo through eternity. A sage of his ilk had gained quite a bit of power in the capital and it was said that his knowledge of vile magical knowledge ran deep.

Deeper than most cared to delve.

The Prince of Tatters had seen the black emptiness of death and was carried away on wings white as snow. Back to a life where his old name was forgotten. All the legacy his people had written upon the world became as air. There were few things he feared now.

Standing on one of the many balconies in the grand hall, his eyes beneath the void of his masque surveyed the room whilst his palms coated in black leather rested on the bannister. Kiringi had placed himself in a position of exaltation in the center of the hall whilst others danced, laughed, drank, and schemed all about him.

All the Prince was waiting on was a moment to strike. Waiting became easier when all of the demons in the room donned their masks the same way he did. He stood back slowly and slipped away into the party…
 
tgd.webpThe ostentatious pageantry of it all is truly repugnant. The mindless, unapologetic flaunting of wealth and undeserved privilege a contest fit only for the vapid, vain and self-important. She feels as suffocated by their hubris as she does by the jeweled corset that crushes her ribs and lifts the swell of her breasts to unnatural proportions— every breath an arduous endeavor she feels she might be incapable of by the evening's end. And yet she does find some satisfaction in the knowledge that all of this theater - the dazzling opulence, lavishness and carefully orchestrated pedantry - is little more than a polished veneer. A desperate measure to disguise the failings of a decaying empire unable to coerce the loyalty and allegiances of the very people it continues to exploit, and their cities it seeks to govern, simply so that it might enjoy the affluence it frantically clings to. It is their arrogance that will spell their demise, she's sure of it. After all, it was their arrogance that had made infiltrating such an esteemed affair so effortless.

She feels every bit the imposter as she prowls about the sweeping expanse of the grand hall, unaccustomed to the hindrance of the rigid bustier, silk skirts and glittering pins nestled in her silver hair. The woman they had belonged to was obviously more slender than Ilara herself, whose sultry curves and shapely silhouette vehemently protest the unforgiving confines of the gown. Still, her movements are fluid. Feline-like. Practiced as she weaves effortlessly between unsuspecting flocks of gossiping ladies and their pompous lordling husbands with sharp, observant eyes and fingers that itch.

Eventually though, she finds her stride. Armed with the anonymity provided by her ornate mask and the faintest buzz of inebriation that lends her a little liquid courage, she engages in the petty niceties and small talk favored by the imperial elite. Delicate diamond bracelets are deftly unclasped by equally delicate, masterful fingers as she lures their attention to the opposite wrist with clever misdirection and honeyed compliments that play off of their ego. Others have already indulged so deeply in the drink provided that they make her work all the easier. These she opts for larger payouts, easing necklaces from their throats and rings from their fingers as she preens and fusses and suffuses them with flattery.

fgrd.webp Only when she cannot feasibly tuck any more sparkling trinkets into her corset does she finally relent, opting instead to enjoy the food and drink so graciously provided as soft melodies on string instruments begin to play alongside the chattering of the guests. She feels herself gradually grow bored. Restless. Dissatisfied with the stagnant conversation and advances of the lecherous men that have been eyeing her hungrily over the course of the party. In fact, she quickly decides to make a premature exit, eager to return back to the small, cozy room she's rented for the night and free herself from all of her stolen finery. That is, until, fate intervenes and she finds herself walking directly into the path of an impressively tall figure, resulting in a gentle collision that has her bristling with mild annoyance and more than a little impatience.

Green eyes flash as they rake with slow deliberation over the person's towering frame, and she tilts her head to one side, interest sufficiently piqued. Not by their size, but rather, by their curious choice of attire ... and that unsettling mask. "Black," she remarks blandly, a soft silver curl bouncing free from the rest to graze the top of her bare shoulder. "A bold choice for this sort of event." Particularly next to the sinful red of hers. "The mask is a little underwhelming though," she continues, voice brimming with childish amusement in spite of herself.​
 
Debauchery had a stench.

It smelled of wine and smoke and the breath of those who devoured the souls of the less fortunate and used their pneuma to craft their thrones of gilded bones. He’d been a part of it until he wasn’t. And he’d lost his life trying to bring down their towers of ivory and brass and gold. He laid awake on cold nights since his return to the material and wondered what he might have done different. If the fight he was fighting even worth it when there didn’t seem to be enough people who cared. And all the swords that clattered against the shields of his enemies were dull with hopelessness.

Kiringi’s throne in the center of the room sat tall and he’d adorned himself like one of the forgotten Emperors of Elden Days. His mask was one made of pearls and his gown was made of gilded beads and all manner of precious stones. His finger nails were like talons and were, too adorned with shining gems the likes of which were found in the deserts of the Miradi. And behind his false visage, The Prince knew what lay.

How could he forget?

He remembered his father’s screams as they boiled his flesh on the deck of that swaying ship. He reached out from tar and cast iron and called out to the heavens for his gods whilst Kiringi spoke in foul and forbidden tongues. His comrades laughed and whipped his old self on the back as he reached for his father and pleaded, vision stained red with his own blood. He reached to save him. To save himself. He reached ever farther for vengeance.

Because he learned that day that justice didn’t exist…

“Black…”

He averted his gaze away from the throne that seemed to reach up to heaven. The one that seated a demon made flesh upon it. The woman before him wore more than one mask that evening. In his past life, he had been nobility. Perhaps no different than any of the other monsters that danced and schemed about them in their drunken stupor. And so he knew nobility when he saw it. And while her figure was stunning… impressive, she was not one of them.

She could not see the ghost of a grin that appeared beneath his steel visage, but the voids that made its eyes were upon her all the same.

“Perhaps I will remove my mask if you remove yours,” he responded simply before offering a hand clad in black leather to her.

“Would you care to dance?”
 
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He had already killed that evening. A lesser man, of little note. Yet something in the way he spoke suggested a breach, or perhaps a lack of discretion among his colleagues. Because even the 'ni had shadows, and the best ones learned to move through light and dark alike, beyond the reflection.

Zayad was not so blessed. His shadow had been careless today.

They would find the body in the morning, stiff in his chair, wine tipped at a calculated angle. Shirt torn open and chest bare. More linen bunched around his ankles. The physician would say heart failure. A tragedy of diet, age, and excitement.

Only the careful, only the paranoid, would notice the faintest scratches atop his heart, hidden in the hair beside the nipple. Three marks etched by a surgeon's hand. The ink carefully washed away. Quiet as whisper and twice as deceiving.

Stop
Stop
Stop​

Imperial script made his work less reliable, but he could not risk the body being examined by someone clever enough. There could be no trace of Miradi hands on the discarded flesh.

This way, even if the signs were found, they could do little but wonder – command or confession?

Zayad wore an eastern face. A merchant's son, brother and father. Blood steeped in tax and treachery. The kind that quartermasters loved and customs agents feared. Wrapped in greying silk, it conveyed all of the wealth and none of the significance. The cut flattered frames of lesser men, but it made Zayad's build appear more rounded across the middle. Opulence and harmlessness, just like the imperials liked. One could always accept the cow but feared the bull. So Zayad did his best to bear milk in place of horns.

The mask on his face was an odd joke. One he chose in bad taste. Ventrillo, a killer from the most recent opera. Lacquered wood, smoothed out to mimic more expensive material. It wore a polite smile of condolence. Lips painted on in the smallest suggestion of red.

He made sure he was remembered for his ignorance about the spice tariffs – because no one ever suspected loud idiots. Enough to make himself exploitable. Memorable in all the correct ways.

As he stepped forward, it wasn't spice he traded in. Smile of flesh did not match the wood. Tonight, the ledger balanced on blood.

It was proving to be an entirely forgettable, if unfortunate, affair. Until his eyes found a thing no one like him could forget. Or survive.

The old black and older mask. He knew the shade and the shape. No 'ni worth his salt could ever forget it. He had never seen it with his own eyes, but he could recite the rumors. The whimpers. Felt them all come back as an inscription across his very chest. Only they weren't telling him to stop. They begged. Run. Run. Run. Because, for once, he wasn't the bigger monster.

Tetron.

Zayad's head failed to hide the tilt of curiosity. He always kept at least one coloumn and two people between himself and the Prince. It was poor manners and worse advice to deny the professional recognition.

The dead man earlier had been a matter of necessity. This was...something else. Not a mission. He could flatter himself and call it a mirror, but the reflection was far more impressive than the one who cast it.

He did not believe he could ever approach unseen. So he opted for the most obvious approach. Sure steps made their way to the figure in black. Without fanfare or announcement, he spoke in his most polished imperial accent:

„These tatters don't suit the wine-stained silk of the Empire.“ He smoothed the creases like a man tending wounds. „But I find myself drawn to royalty all the same. Would you care for company?“
 
The wise knew that the void held the reins to all secrets. Men imagined often that things whispered in the dark could never hurt them so long as no one could hear them. But there were creatures that found nourishment in the shadows. Winged and spiteful things. The maw of spiders who's many legs knew the touch of shadow and grace. The Prince had danced with all manner before and learned to respect their ilk. They had mutual enemies. The only enemy that mattered in his world full of emptiness and pain. Inescapable and boundless as the depths where his body was meant to rest still. He hungered like the waves and devoured as the grave did. And he could see all their corpses in his dreams, a comfort as bold as the rising sun chasing away demons.
"Ah," he responds simply as he gestures to bid his brother join him at the gathering's rim. The shadows where none but their kindred may know of their whispers.
"Let us share a space where crowns do not matter. There are no Kings here."

He bows his head and leads the 'ni as though he were the head of a funeral procession. The gilded image Kiringi still burns in his mind. Death comes for him in more ways than he realized as death often does.
 
Dance had the quick and the dead. He accepted the invitation. Returned the bow. He could not allow fear a foothold, even as it taunted him. He was trained better than that. There were only steps and thought. Movement mirrored, each step falling exactly where the Prince's had left. Like a cat stepping only onto the known.

So they flowed like a river, between drunk waves, and silken rocks, all the way to the perfumed shadows. Steady tempo. Almost like a funeral procession, quiet and purposeful. But for whom, and by whose hand?

It was learned grace to lean without bowing, without kneeling. And he had studied ardently. Patiently. For years.

„There are only two places without crowns.“ And silence had time to weigh the truth. Because he saw no mirrors. But he could envision a grave. „And one of them is not here tonight.“

He wondered what glyph would capture Tetron properly. Was there even a word in Miradi script for that?

„I am curious... are you leading me to your funeral...or mine?“
 
"Hm... Quite the question," he tilts his head in response to the inquiry. A fair one. Those who knew death well often pondered what it meant when it's agents guided them to speak softly and gladly.

"I have walked myself to my own funeral in the past, friend. I assure you that I had not done so with grace... It came with steel and howling men with a thumping in my heart so loud that I could not hear the blades in the dark or the clinking of coins that bought steel otherwise sworn."

He tilts his chin upwards to the Praetor bathed in light and glory before he looks back to the child of the spider and servant of the Shadow-That-Hides-Beneath-Sands.

"Know you his crimes?"
 
„Some men hide in shadow. Others, in blood.“ Zayad met the Prince's gaze. A Praetor. That was some mark. „He chose both.“

He measured the quarry. Strange, being asked if he knew the crimes. As if sin had a say. Killing was never about faith or justice. It was about timing. And message. Margin of error.

The Praetor could call it sacrament. His cults could dress it in tongues and teeth. But in the end, a man's life spilled the same – equal parts red and brown. When the cup tipped, it didn't care about the reason.

„We both know what he is. But what he is to me...isn't what he is to you.“ He wondered if Tetron's flesh twitched beneath the mask. There was very little, save attention, to be gained by removing a Praetor. Another bastard would take his place before the month was out.

No. This was personal.
 
His head tilts to the side, the smoke from incense drifted to meet them here, even in the darkness of the rim of the gathering they both haunted. It made him appear as some dark dream perhaps. The shadow one sees in the corner of their eye when there's naught there but one's own paranoia. A laugh, metallic and hollow comes from behind his visage of steel. He takes a step forward and whispers, though there is no bounce in his step. As if reality itself brought him closer so that he could whisper a sound of metal.

"You speak true, friend."

There was no need to lie. It was personal for him. Every man he'd killed since returning to the world had been personal and some wore faces that were burned into his mind more than others. Though he wondered to what extent the Spider knew of the Praetorian's depravity.

"...but who he is to me is who he is to a great many. Many who will not know the touch of their loves or their homelands. From Altulusia to the great desert dunes themselves."
 
Zayad considered how much truth to allow. If it came to it, Tetron would likely overpower him. There were too many people around to make a clean getaway without breaking cover. A portly merchant pulling himself up a roof one handed would strain credibility. So he portioned it. Listened. And bid his time as the Prince bound his knives in softer things than Zayad cared for.

„If he truly stretched Altalusia to the Obsidian Spire and beyond...“ His head tilted the other way. „Greater men than I... or you, would've been sent to bury him. And they'd have done it. Years ago.“

His gaze returned to poor Lovidicus. Whether he was a viper in the sand or behind glass, Miradi knew how to work vipers.

„No. He's been allowed to fester. That tells me he still has uses.“ He found no joy in cruelty, but it was important to stay practical. There was no love lost between him and imperial monsters. But he respected their efficiency. A known evil was easier to balance.

„'ni do not trust saviors. But we do trust our enemies. At least we know what they want.“ His voice softened into grace. „If he's due, I understand your presence. But let us not pretend the rest of them are any better.“

He took a breath, deep, calming.

„Why are you telling me all this?“
 
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"Better men are an illusion. A thing we tell ourselves to remove the shadow of duty from our mortal forms and to hide another day from Father's judgement... or Takoumba's waiting embrace. Whichever poison tastes better."

His eyes narrow behind the mask, though the Spider that wore the portly man's skin would not see it. He held out both hands, palms facing upward. A symbol of benevolence and one that would let the man across from him know that there was nothing else at play. The man before him was not on his list and likely would never be. The Prince had no intention on waging war against the Miradi, though in a past life he had known the sting of their spears and the power of their machines. And he'd returned malice in kind and made friends out of many of their ilk. People who's names were blurred in his mind and forgotten. May they rest well whether they live or are buried. For the Prince found peace in neither state.

"I say all these things because you cling to darkness as I do and we share the same enemies. He and his cult feast upon Miradi children the same as any other. The dark masters he serves shall only grow more thirsty... and the tides are changing. The rest of them are no better. And they'll likely soon follow him to the same void. But that reckoning will not come if we pretend their motives serve us."
 
In a dance of predators, sudden movements weren't advisable. So he moved only in necessity. He had time to allow the stranger's words to cover the space between them like old dust. Zayad had no counterargument worth making – because Tetron wasn't arguing. He was declaring. That was always the danger of men like him. If he could even still be called a man.

And yet.

If better men were truly an illusion, then poor, dead Amastes upstairs would've still drawn breath. A taller, thinner Miradi bastard – a Salim with lighter eyes and kinder hands – would've been cast as Ventrillo. He would be here now, listening to this. Not Zayad. So no. Better men existed. He simply hadn't met many. Which is why he still drew breath.

He understood conviction. But men needed to know cost as well. This belief in tides and reckoning was a foreign thing. Teachings cared little for such things. Zayad cared even less for the teachings. Spiders did not wait for justice. That was silk's job. Spiders moved. But it was bold of the flies to assume which way the web should tangle.

He could've spoken of lives weighed against cities. Of Miradi children sacrificed by Miradi hands to keep the desert whole. He could've said that he'd have killed a handful of children himself if it meant avoiding war. Had done so. But he said nothing. Tetron did not appear to have the spine for such math. That somehow made him the more human one.

„You are decided, then. I can respect that.“ He did not appreciate the weakness of vengeance, but there was no denying the weight of Tetron's name. „I can understand that and make ready for a storm.“

His fingers curled in as he examined his nails. Casual and precise. Looking for the right words.

„My people are not much for swimming.“ Voice even, like he was explaining why his imaginary brother took four years to take up the practice. „So I may yet man a boat for you today. That you might help them swim ashore, tomorrow.“

A conditional offer. Bound in promise. He hoped they never had to bind each other in ink.
 
For a moment, he did not respond.

He weighed the man's words in a mind that had seen death and what came beyond it. A strange thing. It was hard to know where his own humanity began and ended. Perhaps it did when he was tarred and feathered. Perhaps it ended when he'd seen his family hung high and the love of his life screaming at his demise. Perhaps it ended when he'd seen the wings of Tetron unfurl in an endless expanse of black. The space between stars that bade him reach out his hand and know eternity. To know see the fire that was his grief stifled and guttered by the blood of his enemies. Face he knew so well. Mouths curled in laughter at the suffering of brighter days. Oh, how he wished he might have swam ashore sooner. Rage burned black in his heart as he eyed the Spider wearing the skin of a portly character who's identity was wind.
​
"The Storm is all there is, son of Takoumba," he said finally. A knowing in the metal of his voice. Fate in the way he held out the shadow of his hand.
"In time, you shall see..."

He lifted his gaze toward his enemy who rose from his throne, all gilded feathers and liquid gold trailing behind him as he made to sequester himself away with other masked figures.

"They shall swim yet. You have my word."
 
He let the other's words wash away in the same stormspeak the killer seemed to be so fond of. Zayad had met many colleagues who believed they were divine servants of a higher calling. Talked a lot of death and meaning and such. But the more one worked, the clearer it became – murder was just logistics. A bunch of questions that needed answers good enough not to get you killed.

He wasn't a son of Takoumba no more than he was a daughter of Nebu. All he had from the Spider was an education and rank. He'd met plenty of zealots, but had little interest in joining their ranks. His was to be an iron fist that made all their poetry hold beyond the moment.

No interest in the storm. This was not about fury – a pure transaction.

Zayad knew who. He knew when. And how didn't matter – that was the Prince's prerogative. He was the artist for this piece of work. Dealt in better questions instead. So he looked to the myth next to him and made sure they understood each other:

„What do you need?“ No need to wrap it in silks or soften the edge. It wasn't a favor, simply another ledger line.
 
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