The Warlord's Lesson

                                               The Warlord's Lesson

And so it came to pass that several conquests and battles were done and fought. Realms had fallen to the siege of the Immortals. Their never ending battle for dominance had brought the demise of several realms and had given them quite a vast Empire. An Empire which stretched beyond the flesh, beyond laws of the world, on to other planes, parallels and realms, subjugating previous conquerors and warlords who had sought dominion of those planes for themselves. Forcing allegiances, enforcing loyalty through fear, soon many had fallen, becoming vassals of the Immortal lords. And it happened once that in one of their many Keeps, one of these Lords sat in silence on His blackened throne, his empty white eyes scouring the sickeningly furnished room. What went through his mind, only he knew. Few would’ve recognised him after so long, but what has happened, all that which has led to this point matters little. This Immortal’s name was Sygma.
And in this situation, in this moment it happened that His lover, an icy Queen, frivolous, manipulative, sly, deceitful, which managed to weave, to crawl her way into his blackened heart, came before him with a proposal. “My Lord, my love, Conqueror of all things which are, have been and are yet to be, to celebrate your victories and your rule upon this realm, would you give a feast for me?”
And with a wave of her hand, her white hair trailing in a graceful arch behind it, she had caught the Warlord’s attention. But he knew his own chosen, and smiled coldly. “You would wish, my Queen, that to celebrate my victories a feast is given in your honour? So be it.” And slowly the edge of his cold smile turns and widens, revealing a smirk. “Bring me the list of your guests my beloved.” And she does not turn, she does not move. Instead, she merely takes something off her back, a scroll with several names, symbols, some scratched others with a small scribble in front. She had come prepared.
“Aaah, I see you had already planned I’d agree on this.” He walks towards her, his massive armour towering above her. “I would not by thy chosen if I had not, would I?” She smirks.
Grabbing the list which she had scribbled, the Warlord nods and turning his back on her, he walks back to his throne. “It shall be done as you request.”
And thus his servants are on the move, frantic, frenetic, preparing a feast so large it would be remembered years from now, and it would be. It would be indeed. The invites were sent and the Warlord Sygma made sure that everything went according to his grand plan and to his Lover’s desire. Then again, he sat in his throne and waited, deep in thought, each of those unknown to anyone but himself.

The day comes, and several guests arrive. Blackened chariots, pulled by spectral horses wailing ominously, as they descend from their vehicles, majestic, dark, malicious, walking towards the Keep. The blackened gates open heavily before the guests who walk, in silence into the great hall which stretches before them. Candles light the path and nothing but the red carpet is seen in front of them. Their hostess waits ahead, dressed in white silk and golden threads. The Warlord is not yet present.
”Greetings, my beloved guests. Forgive me if I do not use thy names, but you are so many, and so important each and everyone, I believe I would not be able to forgive myself were I to forget someone.” She bows low to them and chattering and gibbering fills the room as their eyes are set on their hostess. Motioning for them to follow, they do so, moving in unison, like a black mass of silk, blasphemy and malevolence following a faint glow of tainted white. The same kind of white which befalls an ivory trophy of an extinct animal, beautiful, rare, but degenerate nevertheless.
The guests arrive to the buffet hall, the scent of the most exotic fruits, repasts which are beyond their imagination, from worlds which they have never even imagined to exist. And they are struck in awe at the music, which seems to come from nowhere and yet is present everywhere. The White Queen approaches her guests, graceful, proud. One would see her and forget that she is but another product of the same corrupted pits that spawned all of the souls of those present. “That which is mine, I give to you. Feast on these before the arrival of the main course. Each table bears fruits, meals of the most exotic nature, from the farthest realms of the Empire and countries conquered by us.”

And they feast, and drink, and the revelry begins. Loud chatter, music echoing through the halls, and only one name is spoken. Hers.
The Warlord nods and withdraws, smirking slightly. He makes little to no sound, no gesture, despite the blackened thick armour which covers him from neck to toe. Oblivious, the guests continue their party, after all, there is but one star in this spectacle. Soon, his Queen withdraws but for a moment as well.

The bells ring, and the slaves bring several dishes and courses to the immense table which lay in the middle of the hall. The guests approach, cluttering and sitting. From the shadows, at the head of the table Sygma appears, sitting, his long hair flowing still, down his shoulders, some to his chest, some to his back. He claps his hands. “Your Queen will be arriving soon, but, she has requested nonetheless that you commence this meal without her.” Slightly confused, but agreeing to this they begin their meal, this main course. Again, time passes and the Warlord surprisingly does not touch his food.

The bells ring, the music ends. “Ah, finally.” He mutters.

Another plate arrives, almost the same size of a human, overly large, covered by a steel dome. It is placed right before the Warlord. He stands tall, towering above this and removes the cover. Shocking, choking, gasping, they stare as the dish is uncovered. A lush salad is revealed, but in the centre of this plate, the most shocking scene, cruel, sadist to an extreme, unparalleled by any of them. For in the core of this meal, lay their Queen’s body, roasted, filled with most delicious spices, cooked to please the finest of tastes. Her legs and arms bound and split, and her head? Her head lay, covering her entrance, looking at the guests, as beautiful as ever. Her gaze milky and unfocused, looking to each of them, through them to infinity, and yet, her white, loving smile, still kept, untouched. The plate had been decorated in the borders with the Queen’s own jewels which she bore only minutes earlier.
Still towering above her, his figure striking fear into the depths of those blackened hearts, he speaks. “Aaah, and here, before us lays our beloved Queen who in her vanity and arrogance sought to be above my Judgement.” Silence ensues for an instant, as the Warlord savours the moment. Continuing “But, as I am merciful, as you all may perceive, something good may come from her folly. And that, is a lesson. A lesson which you will take into your hearts, minds and bellies. The lesson which I hope that is clear from this moment onwards. The lesson, the knowledge that NO ONE is above my judgement.” This last sentence echoing through the halls, silencing the panicked whispering. “And now… as I am merciful, and as you are loyal and knowledgeable, feed…”