A Conversation

The room smells of iron. Rodsmede's whiskey pairs well with it. He's never been a snob, a drink is a drink, but he has to admit that the buzz of bloodshed certainly pairs well with the buzz of alcohol.

His Courtier of Defense, Derk Gregoor, is chained down to a slab in the middle of the room. He has been laid down gently; forced to stare up at the antlers dangling from the ceiling. The crimson fabric lays under his back and does well to soak in the sputters of blood which escape his beaten body.

Rodsmede swirls his glass of whiskey and listens as the sound of ice bumping on glass bounces against the jagged walls of the chapel. "A shame you don't shatter as easily, isn't it?," the Dux muses, "had you not held on so tightly this would have gone much faster for the both of us. Not that I mind, this is an art to me. Beautiful festivities, really."

Protests from Derk fade into helpless chokes as Rodsmede slams his shoulder down onto the restrained's torso.

"You've talked enough. Idiot." His words are doting. Fatherly. Taunting. "Talking, talking, talking. I pay you to kill, not talk. And yet I hear rumors of you trying to plot a military coup under my nose? You must be a moron, our national identity is built on me. I am Ervehelde."

Whatever defense Derk tried to gargle out couldn't slip past his broken teeth. He simply slurred.

"I built this nation with my own two hands. I built you, Derk. I gave you a nation worth fighting for. A Dominion. But no, no, that would never be enough. It was never enough. Godless heathens like you have been in Ervehelde since before there was an Ervehelde. Before I took control."

The glass of whiskey is thrown onto the floor and shattered into one thousand tiny pieces. Rodsmede is perfectly calm. Derk is too exhausted to flinch.

"There was a time after God died, and a time before the monarchy had taken control once more. I was barely older than a boy when the peasants took siege of our mansion. The only bastion left of monarchist culture after The Blotting. Where our family had congregated to raise me. My father fought with what little faithful soldiers we had left to protect me and my mother. We had no food, holed up in the cellar. The rations had been given to an excursion my grand uncle undertook a week earlier. Left us catching rats. But our devout kitchen staff had done their job well, kept our home clear of the pesky rodents. Ran out quick. Fed my mother on my blood. Kept her alive another few weeks."

Rodsmede pauses.

"I didn't sleep after she died. The rats had come back and I didn't have the energy to chase them. Just to keep them away from the body, until I had the chance to bury her. Removed loose bricks from the flooring and scraped dirt out of the earth until I could stuff her in."

His hand reaches down onto the holster of his gun.

"I gouged out her liver and put her in the ground. There hasn't been a single bite I've taken where my mind didn't go back to the taste... they were weak, Derk. You all are. You need a strong hand to guide you. All of my people do. We can't have what happened at our manor happening again. No. I rule Ervehelde now. Every choice is my own."

Rodsmede bashes Derk's face in with the heel of his gun. A rather disinterested look falls on his face once Derk is finished bleeding. Bits of brain fall to the ground with his pistol. It's dirty.

"Grimrecht. Clean this up. I know quite how you enjoy it."

He exits, nodding to his husband, Grimrecht, who had been watching from the doorway all the while.