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[Isk]

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There are bountiful dreams Isk had always imagined of a life that was surely his destiny. Dreams of a long, hard war across grass and deltas. Images of sublimity and savagery held in perfect equilibrium, though the cacophony of the latter would make all seem like misery to the unblessed inferiors. Humanity feeding like cannibals on the past until it was done away with, raising the impossible on the back of atrocity.

Dreams of an island so proud it had become the center of all.

- - - o - - - o - - - o - - -

For the people of Magincia, The Manifesto of the Human Nation was the voice of the ages. Nothing could be more sacred. The Cultural Centre and Basilica, structures shining like a holy idol to the belief of human supremacy, expounded the truth that resonated in the ears of every human proud of their city. But they were one of a handful buildings left on the torn near vacant island. There would come a day when the Magincians would return and as is the custom with those who spend years in foreign lands, they would question the old ways. The Magnate knew this. The task rested on the broad shoulders of the republic to maintain the traditions. To maintain the fire until the pure returned.

- - - o - - - o - - - o - - -

Tossed from shoulder to shoulder, the thick white mane of Magincia’s Magnate swayed to the powerful nature of his movement. His firm steps and the press of his metal toed boots echoed like the rhythmic beating of a steady heart as he exited the Cultural Centre’s prison cell. Isk did not simply walk, he prowled. From time to time the sway of his armored shoulders was as pronounced and exaggerated as actor playing a noble’s part on a stage. His steady right hand dangerously close to the axe at his thick crimson belt while the other swayed back and forth, the shaking fingers closing and opening in sequence. It gave him an aura of threat as if at any moment his jerky arm would spring and he would point and single out someone before him.

The prisoner, a Drow named Shri’hrae whom he had just visited was proving to be a challenge. She received her beatings well but her will as well as her tongue remained sharp and expertly reactionary. There was hatred in her eyes where there should have been the Utopia laced glaze Isk had desired to see. The Drow took the pain but did not take the offered drug remedy to escape it no matter the quantity of debasement.

“You make things difficult,” Isk whispered to himself as his boots hit the grass.

He had the desire to break this woman down. To strip her to the core and make her dependent on the drug. The beatings to pain her, the mental games Cuthbert played with her. The lies Isk told her. Lies, that her people willingly abandoned her, lies that she has nothing beyond the walls of the prison. Not even the loss of her child broke her. Perhaps starvation will.

The Magnate knew that the longer Shri’hrae resisted the longer she would stay alive. What he wanted was a husk of a Drow, devoid of personality and utterly tamed. One that would beg for a death Magincia would gladly give her. It would be presented in public as a gift to those who still read the words of Khay’Thall.

A welcoming for all who seek return to the island of pride.

[Drayden Calamyr]

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The Patriarch paced as he contemplated the night's events. Mistake after mistake.
At least now I have a face and a voice to what threatens us. I was a fool to think that a snake like Isk would save any other life but his own. An enemy that hides in his alliance, using his allies to fight for and protect him. The human is more drow than he realizes.
The anger was there again. That long buried fury that he had kept in check so many times. Through discipline and devotion to the Masked One. So much anger directed at one human for so many wrongs. Isk, ages ago, had a direct hand of Drayden's downfall in addition to countless atrocities committed against his kind. Now, he found himself in a all too familiar situation.
The strange voice had returned into his mind recently, as it had faded during his time with his Brotherhood.
You were a fool to think you could bargain with them on your terms brother.
Drayden stopped his pacing and spoke aloud, "Then what is there to do? An open fight is not an option at this point."
Patience. Always patience. You watch and wait. Then act. Something both you and her seem to forget about.
He looked around the room and sighed. "Yes yes. Gods he infuriates me. They all do. Their accusatory stares their hatred."
Good you should hate them. You gave them the nice way. Perhaps it is time to change the tune of the song...
"Indeed...."
The Patriarch walked over to his black stone desk and penned several dispatches to be place on the board at the hotel.
You know who to let know about this. You have done this before...did that Matriarch steal your passion and soul?
Drayden growled, "Leave me alone."
After finishing each directive, he traveled by magic to the Inn and posted three separate messages to three different people. They would know what to do and how to proceed.