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Description
A low table sat solemnly in a dimly lit room. It was round, and upon its face was depicted a map. Mountains, rivers, forests and lakes were carved upon its face alongside towns and castles of importance. Two differently colored small, wooden carvings sat in tight wedges all over the face of the table, one side red and one side blue. There were far more blue figures than red.

A multitude of chairs were ringed around the table, some occupied and some not. The men who sat there were quiet and solemn and imposing-looking, decorated in expensive fabrics and impressive badges of office. They fidgeted in their chairs, looking over the map and running tactics in their heads, gazing at left and right at each other and the empty chairs between them. All their gazes eventually wandered to the large, ornately-carved dark wood chair that sat higher than the rest. It was empty, and the entire room waited impatiently for its occupant.

The large double door that stood behind the king's chair blew open and the king himself strode in. King Tristan Soravall of Harralya was born and bred for the life of a king, but there was no doubt in the mind of many that he was still unsuited to the job. He had taken the throne only less than a year ago when the stress of war became to great for his late father.

King Tristan sat awkwardly in his late father's chair, not managing to measure up to the career soldier's large bulk. Though a competent swordsman, Tristan was brought up more by his mother than his father, the latter being so engrossed in the war even then. She died years ago of disease, leaving Tristan finally in the care of his father. Or, in actuality, the care of many of the men around him. For seven long years, many of the men around the table- and many no longer there- had been his harsh tutors in a vain attempt to mold Tristan into something his father could use and rely upon. The constant look of disappointment that was upon the face of the late Joseph Soravall was something that would always haunt his son.

Tristan cut straight through the pleasantries. "We are losing this war," he said, "and there is nothing that can be done of it." The air grew intensely heavy, and the already dark mood threaded throughout the men soured further at the brash confirmation of their fears. "Harralya is dying. Her soldiers are dying. Her people are dying. And the best we can do is sit in this room and contemplate the end." Tristan's final words rang out in the solemn chamber.

One of the men around the table, an aging general with a bald head covered in liver spots, banged his hand roughly on the table, disturbing a few nearby figures. "We need resources," his voice could barely contain his anger and desperation, "our soldiers don't have the rations for extended marches, and the few remaining stations on the frontier are too far apart."

Tristan shot him an angry look from across the table. "We have nothing to spare. Our people need to eat as well, general, and our taxes cannot sustain our imports as they are now."

Another man spoke out, "Then raise the taxes!"

Tristan shifted to look at the speaker, a gentleman far older than he. "I cannot. We have raised taxes three times this year alone. Any more, and our people will starve." He knew they wouldn't understand; they weren't stupid men, but they were so invested in this war they couldn't listen to anything they deemed as an excuse.

The table exploded in voices as all the men gathered began to yell and argue. The stories were all the same: heavy casualties and a lack of proper resources. Rations were scarce and too much good steel was being traded away to gather what few rations there were. The bickering continued for a time as Tristan began to stew in his chair, gripping the arms so tight his knuckles turned white.

Even as voices continued to reverberate angrily around the room, seemingly shaking the air, Tristan bolted from his seat. "Quiet!" He roared out, silencing the room. If there was only a single thing he learned from his father, it was how to quiet a room full of bickering soldiers. "Everyday, every single day, this war becomes more hopeless," Tristan spoke confidently, trying his best to stand tall and proud under the crushing scrutiny of his audience. "More and more people die, soldiers and civilians. And we haven't the means to save those bound for death, or even to continue to support those of our people who yet live.

"You say you need resources," Tristan gestured toward the aging general, "I tell you we have nothing left. All the silver, lead, gold and iron we mine is traded away for the rations we need. Which still isn't enough." He began to pace around the table, still speaking, "You say we need to raise taxes. I tell you that one more raise will cause an irreparable rift in this nation that we can ill afford. The common man can scarcely afford the things he needs to survive now; another hike in taxes will crush any hope he has. Merchants set their prices; it has been this way since my grandfather, in order to facilitate a wealth of trade. But in a clime such as this, with all manner of things so rare, these prices climb to new heights, strangling the possibility of survival for all but the most affluent. This gives us two problems we cannot solve."

One of the men around the table interrupted, "Why not simply impose prices upon basic items, like bread and cloth?"

Tristan stopped to look at the man for a long moment, not truly contemplating his comment. "Have you not listened? That would not work. Raise the taxes and the people revolt. Set the prices and what few supplies we garner now will migrate at best, and the wealthy could plan an insurrection at worst. Those fat bastards would not hesitate to turn their supplies over to our enemies if it would mean larger profit to line their pockets."

Tristan returned to his chair and leaned out over the war table, placing both hands upon its surface. A few moments turned into a few minutes as Tristan stood there, the men around the table looking on in stunned silence. A few tiny, choking gasps escaped his mouth as his tears dripped down onto the carved wooden table. "Do you know how I end each day?" Tristan managed to ask between quiet sobs. "Just like this, lamenting each new death earned that day by my incompetence as king."

A few more minutes passed in silence as Tristan pulled himself together, wiping his face on the fine cloth of one majestic sleeve before returning to his seat. "But there is a way. We can still win this war and end the suffering of our people. As you men know, we have our... spies in Asarel." There was a deliberate pause before Tristan said the word "spies." He continued, "King Harrel of Asarel has grown ill, and lies on his death bed. Many of his men move and act without supervision, vying for his title. Even his own sons plot war amongst each other. The war keeps these many factions in a tenuous alliance, but without their king Asarel could be pulled into civil war."

A man who had remained quiet until then suddenly leaned forward in his chair and questioned the king, "And how do you propose we accomplish this?" His name was Virgil and he was an older man, and a general, a very rank-and-file sort of soldier.

Tristan knew that, of them all, Virgil was the least likely to accept what he would say next. "I have a plan. With the backing of our ally, Errhoa, we can amass a small team of men to penetrate into Asarel and depose the king."

Virgil shot from his seat, staring the king dead in his eye. "An assassination, then?" He spoke, eyes narrowing to slits, "I'd have thought your father raised you better than that."

Fighting to keep his anger in check, Tristan calmly said, "With all due respect, ser, you raised me more than he did. And this is not up for discussion. We have no other options. If this fails, we are, all of us, doomed."

Virgil's eyes began to smolder. "I'll have no part of this," he spat as stormed to the door.

"Wait a moment, general," Tristan called coldly. Virgil froze in his tracks just as he began to open the door. "If you leave this room now, you are a general no longer. If you leave, your badge of office stays." Wordlessly, Virgil ripped a brooch from his cape and flung it vehemently to the ground, letting his cape fall free. He strode angrily and dejectedly out of the room, leaving the double doors wide open. The other men watched him go, unsure of whether to stay and acquiesce to this strange plan or leave with him. In the end, they all remained seated silently and watched the general storm away.

"Are there any other objections?" The room was deathly silent. "Then you are dismissed." The gathered military men slowly shuffled off, leaving Tristan alone to contemplate his actions. His body began to shake slightly, fear and nervousness overwhelming him. Even this plan was a long-shot, far from guaranteed to work; still, it was the only choice that remained to any of them. It had also cost him Virgil, one of his late father's greatest and most trusted advisers, and a friend besides. A man who had practically taught him the sword. "No going back now... there isn't any way I could face any of them if I want back now. God grant me strength."

After a long while of solemn contemplation, Tristan finally regained his senses and left the war room. He wandered along inside his castle and eventually stumbled upon the kitchen. The few servants still awake at whatever hour it was were surprised to see him, but Tristan merely scooped up a bottle of wine and made his way back out. Drinking all the while, he managed to stumble along for a time after until he came to a door he knew all too well. He turned the knob, knowing it wouldn't be locked, and went inside. A beautiful woman dressed in delicate finery sat upon fine linen sheets, awash in the glow of a lone candle that sat on the stand beside the bed.

Tristan stumbled toward her, dropping the bottle and spilling what little of contents remained upon the floor. He collapsed on top of her, pinning her to the bed, groping at her breasts drunkenly with one hand and stringing the other through her dark, smooth hair. "My king," she said in a sultry tone, "should you not be with your lady wife this night?"

"No," he grunted through his inebriation, "I need you. Now."

She laughed melodiously and stroked his head as he began to tear at her garments. "Very well..."

Description
A low table sat solemnly in a dimly lit room. It was round, and upon its face was depicted a map. Mountains, rivers, forests and lakes were carved upon its face alongside towns and castles of importance. Two differently colored small, wooden carvings sat in tight wedges all over the face of the table, one side red and one side blue. There were far more blue figures than red.

A multitude of chairs were ringed around the table, some occupied and some not. The men who sat there were quiet and solemn and imposing-looking, decorated in expensive fabrics and impressive badges of office. They fidgeted in their chairs, looking over the map and running tactics in their heads, gazing at left and right at each other and the empty chairs between them. All their gazes eventually wandered to the large, ornately-carved dark wood chair that sat higher than the rest. It was empty, and the entire room waited impatiently for its occupant.

The large double door that stood behind the king's chair blew open and the king himself strode in. King Tristan Soravall of Harralya was born and bred for the life of a king, but there was no doubt in the mind of many that he was still unsuited to the job. He had taken the throne only less than a year ago when the stress of war became to great for his late father.

King Tristan sat awkwardly in his late father's chair, not managing to measure up to the career soldier's large bulk. Though a competent swordsman, Tristan was brought up more by his mother than his father, the latter being so engrossed in the war even then. She died years ago of disease, leaving Tristan finally in the care of his father. Or, in actuality, the care of many of the men around him. For seven long years, many of the men around the table- and many no longer there- had been his harsh tutors in a vain attempt to mold Tristan into something his father could use and rely upon. The constant look of disappointment that was upon the face of the late Joseph Soravall was something that would always haunt his son.

Tristan cut straight through the pleasantries. "We are losing this war," he said, "and there is nothing that can be done of it." The air grew intensely heavy, and the already dark mood threaded throughout the men soured further at the brash confirmation of their fears. "Harralya is dying. Her soldiers are dying. Her people are dying. And the best we can do is sit in this room and contemplate the end." Tristan's final words rang out in the solemn chamber.

One of the men around the table, an aging general with a bald head covered in liver spots, banged his hand roughly on the table, disturbing a few nearby figures. "We need resources," his voice could barely contain his anger and desperation, "our soldiers don't have the rations for extended marches, and the few remaining stations on the frontier are too far apart."

Tristan shot him an angry look from across the table. "We have nothing to spare. Our people need to eat as well, general, and our taxes cannot sustain our imports as they are now."

Another man spoke out, "Then raise the taxes!"

Tristan shifted to look at the speaker, a gentleman far older than he. "I cannot. We have raised taxes three times this year alone. Any more, and our people will starve." He knew they wouldn't understand; they weren't stupid men, but they were so invested in this war they couldn't listen to anything they deemed as an excuse.

The table exploded in voices as all the men gathered began to yell and argue. The stories were all the same: heavy casualties and a lack of proper resources. Rations were scarce and too much good steel was being traded away to gather what few rations there were. The bickering continued for a time as Tristan began to stew in his chair, gripping the arms so tight his knuckles turned white.

Even as voices continued to reverberate angrily around the room, seemingly shaking the air, Tristan bolted from his seat. "Quiet!" He roared out, silencing the room. If there was only a single thing he learned from his father, it was how to quiet a room full of bickering soldiers. "Everyday, every single day, this war becomes more hopeless," Tristan spoke confidently, trying his best to stand tall and proud under the crushing scrutiny of his audience. "More and more people die, soldiers and civilians. And we haven't the means to save those bound for death, or even to continue to support those of our people who yet live.

"You say you need resources," Tristan gestured toward the aging general, "I tell you we have nothing left. All the silver, lead, gold and iron we mine is traded away for the rations we need. Which still isn't enough." He began to pace around the table, still speaking, "You say we need to raise taxes. I tell you that one more raise will cause an irreparable rift in this nation that we can ill afford. The common man can scarcely afford the things he needs to survive now; another hike in taxes will crush any hope he has. Merchants set their prices; it has been this way since my grandfather, in order to facilitate a wealth of trade. But in a clime such as this, with all manner of things so rare, these prices climb to new heights, strangling the possibility of survival for all but the most affluent. This gives us two problems we cannot solve."

One of the men around the table interrupted, "Why not simply impose prices upon basic items, like bread and cloth?"

Tristan stopped to look at the man for a long moment, not truly contemplating his comment. "Have you not listened? That would not work. Raise the taxes and the people revolt. Set the prices and what few supplies we garner now will migrate at best, and the wealthy could plan an insurrection at worst. Those fat bastards would not hesitate to turn their supplies over to our enemies if it would mean larger profit to line their pockets."

Tristan returned to his chair and leaned out over the war table, placing both hands upon its surface. A few moments turned into a few minutes as Tristan stood there, the men around the table looking on in stunned silence. A few tiny, choking gasps escaped his mouth as his tears dripped down onto the carved wooden table. "Do you know how I end each day?" Tristan managed to ask between quiet sobs. "Just like this, lamenting each new death earned that day by my incompetence as king."

A few more minutes passed in silence as Tristan pulled himself together, wiping his face on the fine cloth of one majestic sleeve before returning to his seat. "But there is a way. We can still win this war and end the suffering of our people. As you men know, we have our... spies in Asarel." There was a deliberate pause before Tristan said the word "spies." He continued, "King Harrel of Asarel has grown ill, and lies on his death bed. Many of his men move and act without supervision, vying for his title. Even his own sons plot war amongst each other. The war keeps these many factions in a tenuous alliance, but without their king Asarel could be pulled into civil war."

A man who had remained quiet until then suddenly leaned forward in his chair and questioned the king, "And how do you propose we accomplish this?" His name was Virgil and he was an older man, and a general, a very rank-and-file sort of soldier.

Tristan knew that, of them all, Virgil was the least likely to accept what he would say next. "I have a plan. With the backing of our ally, Errhoa, we can amass a small team of men to penetrate into Asarel and depose the king."

Virgil shot from his seat, staring the king dead in his eye. "An assassination, then?" He spoke, eyes narrowing to slits, "I'd have thought your father raised you better than that."

Fighting to keep his anger in check, Tristan calmly said, "With all due respect, ser, you raised me more than he did. And this is not up for discussion. We have no other options. If this fails, we are, all of us, doomed."

Virgil's eyes began to smolder. "I'll have no part of this," he spat as stormed to the door.

"Wait a moment, general," Tristan called coldly. Virgil froze in his tracks just as he began to open the door. "If you leave this room now, you are a general no longer. If you leave, your badge of office stays." Wordlessly, Virgil ripped a brooch from his cape and flung it vehemently to the ground, letting his cape fall free. He strode angrily and dejectedly out of the room, leaving the double doors wide open. The other men watched him go, unsure of whether to stay and acquiesce to this strange plan or leave with him. In the end, they all remained seated silently and watched the general storm away.

"Are there any other objections?" The room was deathly silent. "Then you are dismissed." The gathered military men slowly shuffled off, leaving Tristan alone to contemplate his actions. His body began to shake slightly, fear and nervousness overwhelming him. Even this plan was a long-shot, far from guaranteed to work; still, it was the only choice that remained to any of them. It had also cost him Virgil, one of his late father's greatest and most trusted advisers, and a friend besides. A man who had practically taught him the sword. "No going back now... there isn't any way I could face any of them if I want back now. God grant me strength."

After a long while of solemn contemplation, Tristan finally regained his senses and left the war room. He wandered along inside his castle and eventually stumbled upon the kitchen. The few servants still awake at whatever hour it was were surprised to see him, but Tristan merely scooped up a bottle of wine and made his way back out. Drinking all the while, he managed to stumble along for a time after until he came to a door he knew all too well. He turned the knob, knowing it wouldn't be locked, and went inside. A beautiful woman dressed in delicate finery sat upon fine linen sheets, awash in the glow of a lone candle that sat on the stand beside the bed.

Tristan stumbled toward her, dropping the bottle and spilling what little of contents remained upon the floor. He collapsed on top of her, pinning her to the bed, groping at her breasts drunkenly with one hand and stringing the other through her dark, smooth hair. "My king," she said in a sultry tone, "should you not be with your lady wife this night?"

"No," he grunted through his inebriation, "I need you. Now."

She laughed melodiously and stroked his head as he began to tear at her garments. "Very well..."