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Description

Trial 10a: The Burden of Power

A genial guest gives a rude awakening.  An hour past midnight, Maximillian Acheron walks into the human realm.  His pipe whispers a scarlet stream of smoke, crawling its way in front of the full moon.  Acheron’s other hand lays on an ivory cane.  The cane taps a leisurely beat, biding time for the man’s appointment.   Soon enough, the customer arrives, less than pleased with this schedule.

A streak of silver light extends from the horizon, stopping behind the moon.  This ray fades from the horizon, instead aiming for the surface.  The comet descends, slamming down on a moonlit patch of grass.  As the dust clears, a man emerges, seated on one knee and one fist.  He stands up, a white overcoat falling over his barbaric frame.  "Maximillian.  You haven't shown yourself for a while," says Ares.  As he approaches, one hand sits on the hilt of his sword.

The tuxedo-clad skeleton nods.   Another hand keeps the top hat on his skull.  "Indeed.  I call for a brief conference, no more."  Acheron notes the placement of Ares' sword arm.   "Now please, let your vigilance rest. Surely it's too dark and too late for a duel, yes?"

"It's a bad habit."  Shiro settles for crossing his arms.  Leonidas waits, sheathed at his side. "If you were looking for a chat, you would've found someone else. Just shoot straight and I'll do the same."

"Very well. I thought I should give the king fair warning before I conquer his domain."

"Don't give me credit," Ares says. His face remains a vague, frozen cocktail- one of boredom, distrust and demand. Acheron's threat goes according to forecast.  Each member of his team, Durandal, secures a stronghold.  Shiro continues,  "I'm just another soldier, living on the death of your own."

"And you make quite a living doing so.  Better than any other, I may add."  The skeleton falls into a steady stride.  Maximillian waves for Ares to follow.  He roots his feet until business finishes. Shiro won’t feign trust in the enemy.  Maximillian, never one to idle, instead paces an easy circle around his customer.  He continues, "That gives you power, in no short supply. Only you can answer this question: why don't you have every throne under the sun?"

"I didn't overthrow Ultimus so I could replace him."  His response comes forthright.  Shiro explored this question before any other could ask.   He watches as Acheron crawls around him like the hands of a clock.

"Fascinating.  But you surpassed Ultimus, yes?  You could craft this world however you wish.  Who are the weak to protest? Who are the ignorant to contradict?"

"Nobody wants a king." Ares keeps his answer terse.  Bones chatters enough already.  A guilty mouth keeps running, as a means to escape investigation. Leaders and followers alike hide their intent under a blanket of words.  On the other hand, a stiffer tongue becomes ambiguous.  Either the speaker hides nothing, or creates the faithful illusion of such.  Ares will let Maximillian ponder this.

"On the contrary- the elite do. And rail against that club as much as you want, but you’re a member!"   Acheron sees his client’s laconic front as just that- a front. Any barbarian would have tripped over his tongue by now.  Maximillian continues, "And there’s no shame in it.  Shouldn’t the most capable hands accomplish the most?  By definition, they would." If Ares hides his hand, Acheron will judge by the cards he plays.  A conservative move says as much of the player as going all in.

"Man can’t even follow The Creator consistently.  Don’t tell me they’ll follow a mortal."    Ares plays his philosophy straight.  Maximillian just flashed a card of his own.

"You read up on your history, I see.  But you’re overlooking a key point: To them, you’re more than that.  Wherever you go, you leave a mountainous trail of my soldiers’ corpses.  Your people see demons killing their young and their old, their cities ablaze with hellfire, tyrants enslaving the survivors.  And they see you wiping all that away with one stroke of the blade.   Face it: you, sir, are their savior."

Ares pushes up his glasses with two fingers. "You’d have the people’s savior fall before them.  Think you can bury me and take my spot.  Let me herd up the masses before you take over, huh?" He dons a complacent smirk. "It’s a brilliant setup.  Too bad I’m not playing along."

"You’re a shrewd one, Sir Shiro.  But you forget we needn’t engage you directly.  Your followers might expect you to rescue all, without prejudice.  When massacre happens under your nose…" A single locust slips out of Acheron’s sleeve.  It flies unassumingly toward Shiro.

"They’ll lose faith," finishes Ares.  The locust nears his shoulder before turning over, landing dead.  "Careful with how you craft your Messiahs.  It just might work," he taunts.

"But the Messiah didn’t save our last Earth, good sir.  And the symphony of ages plays a simple melody.  Listen long enough and you’ll soon find a pattern."

"Think you can repeat history?"  Ares saw this card waiting in the deck.  "I thought you were sharper."  He nods to the discard pile.  "Going by your words, this planet’s already mine.  It’s not the same Earth you drove to ruin."

"I’m glad you understand. Clearly, you know the rules and you know the stakes."  Maximillian inverts his pipe.  Chalky ashes sprinkle on the silver grass below. "I shall enjoy this game thoroughly.  I hope you shall too."  His pipe tucks away in his jacket again.  At the same time, Maximillian offers his other hand.  Ares shakes it.  Thus, the past and present lords of Earth agree to war.

Description

Trial 10a: The Burden of Power

A genial guest gives a rude awakening.  An hour past midnight, Maximillian Acheron walks into the human realm.  His pipe whispers a scarlet stream of smoke, crawling its way in front of the full moon.  Acheron’s other hand lays on an ivory cane.  The cane taps a leisurely beat, biding time for the man’s appointment.   Soon enough, the customer arrives, less than pleased with this schedule.

A streak of silver light extends from the horizon, stopping behind the moon.  This ray fades from the horizon, instead aiming for the surface.  The comet descends, slamming down on a moonlit patch of grass.  As the dust clears, a man emerges, seated on one knee and one fist.  He stands up, a white overcoat falling over his barbaric frame.  "Maximillian.  You haven't shown yourself for a while," says Ares.  As he approaches, one hand sits on the hilt of his sword.

The tuxedo-clad skeleton nods.   Another hand keeps the top hat on his skull.  "Indeed.  I call for a brief conference, no more."  Acheron notes the placement of Ares' sword arm.   "Now please, let your vigilance rest. Surely it's too dark and too late for a duel, yes?"

"It's a bad habit."  Shiro settles for crossing his arms.  Leonidas waits, sheathed at his side. "If you were looking for a chat, you would've found someone else. Just shoot straight and I'll do the same."

"Very well. I thought I should give the king fair warning before I conquer his domain."

"Don't give me credit," Ares says. His face remains a vague, frozen cocktail- one of boredom, distrust and demand. Acheron's threat goes according to forecast.  Each member of his team, Durandal, secures a stronghold.  Shiro continues,  "I'm just another soldier, living on the death of your own."

"And you make quite a living doing so.  Better than any other, I may add."  The skeleton falls into a steady stride.  Maximillian waves for Ares to follow.  He roots his feet until business finishes. Shiro won’t feign trust in the enemy.  Maximillian, never one to idle, instead paces an easy circle around his customer.  He continues, "That gives you power, in no short supply. Only you can answer this question: why don't you have every throne under the sun?"

"I didn't overthrow Ultimus so I could replace him."  His response comes forthright.  Shiro explored this question before any other could ask.   He watches as Acheron crawls around him like the hands of a clock.

"Fascinating.  But you surpassed Ultimus, yes?  You could craft this world however you wish.  Who are the weak to protest? Who are the ignorant to contradict?"

"Nobody wants a king." Ares keeps his answer terse.  Bones chatters enough already.  A guilty mouth keeps running, as a means to escape investigation. Leaders and followers alike hide their intent under a blanket of words.  On the other hand, a stiffer tongue becomes ambiguous.  Either the speaker hides nothing, or creates the faithful illusion of such.  Ares will let Maximillian ponder this.

"On the contrary- the elite do. And rail against that club as much as you want, but you’re a member!"   Acheron sees his client’s laconic front as just that- a front. Any barbarian would have tripped over his tongue by now.  Maximillian continues, "And there’s no shame in it.  Shouldn’t the most capable hands accomplish the most?  By definition, they would." If Ares hides his hand, Acheron will judge by the cards he plays.  A conservative move says as much of the player as going all in.

"Man can’t even follow The Creator consistently.  Don’t tell me they’ll follow a mortal."    Ares plays his philosophy straight.  Maximillian just flashed a card of his own.

"You read up on your history, I see.  But you’re overlooking a key point: To them, you’re more than that.  Wherever you go, you leave a mountainous trail of my soldiers’ corpses.  Your people see demons killing their young and their old, their cities ablaze with hellfire, tyrants enslaving the survivors.  And they see you wiping all that away with one stroke of the blade.   Face it: you, sir, are their savior."

Ares pushes up his glasses with two fingers. "You’d have the people’s savior fall before them.  Think you can bury me and take my spot.  Let me herd up the masses before you take over, huh?" He dons a complacent smirk. "It’s a brilliant setup.  Too bad I’m not playing along."

"You’re a shrewd one, Sir Shiro.  But you forget we needn’t engage you directly.  Your followers might expect you to rescue all, without prejudice.  When massacre happens under your nose…" A single locust slips out of Acheron’s sleeve.  It flies unassumingly toward Shiro.

"They’ll lose faith," finishes Ares.  The locust nears his shoulder before turning over, landing dead.  "Careful with how you craft your Messiahs.  It just might work," he taunts.

"But the Messiah didn’t save our last Earth, good sir.  And the symphony of ages plays a simple melody.  Listen long enough and you’ll soon find a pattern."

"Think you can repeat history?"  Ares saw this card waiting in the deck.  "I thought you were sharper."  He nods to the discard pile.  "Going by your words, this planet’s already mine.  It’s not the same Earth you drove to ruin."

"I’m glad you understand. Clearly, you know the rules and you know the stakes."  Maximillian inverts his pipe.  Chalky ashes sprinkle on the silver grass below. "I shall enjoy this game thoroughly.  I hope you shall too."  His pipe tucks away in his jacket again.  At the same time, Maximillian offers his other hand.  Ares shakes it.  Thus, the past and present lords of Earth agree to war.