Neshamar xun-Oloth the Proponent of the Mauls, Emperor of Thera

Role

Chapter 10

Though the books had often talked about the great battles and plots
performed throughout the Empire's history, Neshamar had never quite
appreciated just how messy the whole business would be.

He'd had to have his clothes laundered five times this week. His soft hands
were developing calluses of all things, and a piece of a dwarf's brain had
actually landed in his mouth during a particularly violent skirmish, and
the taste had been lingering there for days. No. The books had never talked
about this part, and Neshamar understood why; you couldn't be telling the
masses this kind of thing, or they'd all go into tailoring and bookbinding.
Important professions, of course, but someone had to kill the savages,
didn't they?

Things had, all in all though he supposed, been going quite well. Souls had
come into his possession, and souls had passed out of his hands. Neshamar
had always thought he wouldn't much care about that, but he could admit to
himself at least that he actually had. Those were -his-. How dare people
take them away? There would be a reckoning for this, mark his words there
would! When (he refused to qualify the statement with if) he was Emperor,
crucifiction would absolutely be back in vogue. He'd have those Maran put
up all along the avenue of conquest, and the peasants could entertain
themselves throwing things of questionable origin at the savages. Nothing
united the masses like a common malice, after all.

More importantly though, the Lord Rillan had heard his entreaties and
graced him with his resplendent presence. Neshamar had passed into that
most grand of palaces, and for all his privileged upbringing had never seen
such manifold wealth on display. They'd schemed, and plotted, and the
Architect of Order had shared his wisdom with him. Plans had been set into
motion, and the path forward was as clear as one could hope given the
inevitable opacity of politics. The six tenets of Rillan were weapons that
must be sharpened and honed to perfection in the work to come, and soon he
would return with tasks completed to the palace atop the mountain.

There was one other thing which must be attended to, however.

"What do you mean you cannot enroll me in the etiquette class?" Neshamar
was quite displeased. Didn't this Arkhamite know who he was? "I assure you
it is within my monitary means."

The bored looking woman ruffled some forms on her desk which Neshamar knew
for a fact she had not read. "Etiquette falls under standard guild training,
so you're needin to be issued a training permit."

Neshamar did not gape, for such was unseemly. "That is ridiculous. I wish
to simply work upon my interlocution. My posture. To optimise what is
already present."

"The rules are the rules," said the woman with a yawn. "Come back when you
got a permit."

Immortal Comments

Role

Chapter 1

As dusk descended upon Hamsah Mu'taz, young children grew sleepy and were
tucked into bed by loving parents. Bedtime stories a plenty were told, of
grand heroics and grander deeds. Of noble warriors striking down devils
and demons. Of mighty desert princes of old going forth to slay dragons and
all manner of dread things from the realms of the real and the imagined.
Happily ever after were the words of the hour.

Well. Mostly.

"And then did the Emperor Gaspare Gnazzo stretch out his hand and command
the anathema to die!" declared a particularly animated drow, her pale hands
gesturing dramatically in a possibly accurate rendition of said lich
Emperor as she paced up and down in a well appointed bedroom. "The dark
forces rose to his command, and all trembled at the knowing!"

A young boy, dark skinned and with eyes to match the woman clapped his
small hands at the portentous pause. "What happened! What happened!"

The narrow faced drow stopped beside the child's bed and placed a kiss upon
his forehead. "If you do well in your lessons tomorrow, you might find out.
"

The child groaned in dismay, but his mother was having none of it. "But I
want to know what happened! Did he crustify the shadow lord?"

"Crucify," his mother corrected sharply, apparently unable to tolerate the
mangling of such a delightful practice. "And lessons tomorrow. Then
storytime."

Her son scowled mutinously. "I'm not tired."

"You are. What happens to small children that do not go to bed on time?"

As if by magic the young boy's head vanished under the blankets as he took
cover. "Empress Kharghurln eats them," came the fearful whisper.

"That's right. So what do we do after storytime?"

"Go to sleep," came the muffled response.

The drow's thin lips turned up into a mildly maternal smile as she
shuttered the lantern, leaving her son to dream childish dreams of
Emperor's most Dread.

Role

Chapter 2

Neshamar never questioned his parent's wealth when he was growing up. They
were not exceptionally rich by any means, but they were wealthy enough that
money was never really something he had to think about. He simply accepted
that they were a primary supplier of the finest embalming fluid in all of
Hamsah Mu'taz, and the necromancer's guild paid them well for their goods.

This was only half the truth, of course. The business was perfectly
legitimate, and the embalming fluid was indeed the finest to be found this
side of the dragon sea. It was sourced from the imperial holdings after all,
and the financial reports that returned to the palace each quarter
contained no shortage of encoded information about the happenings of Hamsah
Mu'taz.

Neshamar never knew much about this though. The extent of his childish
understanding was that his parents held imperial sympathies, and who
wouldn't? The stories of ages gone by stoked something in him that surely
all men and women of ambition must feel.

Nevertheless, it was neither grand ambition or hidden familial ties to the
Empire which set Neshamar on a path similar yet so divergent to many of
those that had come before.

It was those long cherrished stories of greatness told to him in the late
hours of the day, and a wish to know more.

He spent much of his free time visiting the grand library of Hamsah Mu'taz.
He would pour over historical texts. Read about the nuance so often
discarded for the sake of a good story. He learned about what was, what is,
and speculated about what would be.

He learned.

And over time, from that learning, Neshamar learned despair.

Role

Chapter 3

Greatness is a facination of mine.

It is my mother's fault, doubtlessly, though fault is such a pernicious
word. Wrapped up in blackest implication, ascribing error were there was no
error at all. She would tell me tales, you see. Throughout my formative
years I would hear of those great paragons of darkness that had come before.
I would hear how they bent the world to their desires. How the dread of
their coming shaped a generation of Therans, but never, you understand, of
their fall.

That is the problem, after all. We always speak of the great and terrible
deeds wrought by our dark legends. Those men and women named villain, or
tyrant, or butcher by those misguided servants of the honest and upright.
So rarely, though, do we speak of their end. How they died ignoble ends
near one and all.

Perhaps surrounded by a horde of their lessers, death by a thousand cuts.

Perhaps slain by but one, armed with that greatest and keenest blade named
hubris. No sword of elven make or hallowed knife this, but one sharper than
both besides.

Perhaps they meet a greater monster, and a legend slays a legend.

Perhaps undone by simple chance, that most wicked working of Chaos.

It is a cycle as old as time. Darkness rises. Darkness reigns. And darkness
is vanquished.

I cannot have been the first to see it. If I may be so humble, we drow are
rather brilliant. Surely others had drawn the same conclusion.

But I do wonder how many had come to the second conclusion.

That darkness is losing.

Our legends are not so legendary. Our tyrants are not so tyrannical. Year
by year. Decade by decade. Century by century.

The Light is winning.


And I asked myself:

Why?

Role

Chapter 4

It didn't take me long to deduce the answer.

You can see it in the great guilds of darkness. You can see it in the
Scions of the Eternal Night, those madmen who would flip over the board
because they do not know how to play. You can see it throughout history
with legend after legend after legend.

We are selfish.

Individualistic gratification. Personal power. Cult of personality. All
these things and more.

And those things?

They die with the legend in question.

Is it any surprise that we are losing? With every generation, we are
diminished. Yes, perhaps now and again, a great man or woman rises, but it
is transient.

The Light's tide of mediocrity is eating us alive, one nibble at a time.
Because they have a cause that the masses have bought into. An institution.
The death of one in service to that cause is used to drive said cause
forward, reinforcing the institution. I'd almost call it brilliant, if I
did not know it was a result of sickly sentimentality and not pragmatism.

And so we return to my childhood facination. That most infamous institution
of all.

The Empire.

On the surface, the Empire is perfect. A machine which enforces the driving
purpose. Positions of power and authority which the peasantry can aspire to.
Is this not everything and more that could be wished for?

I believe once it might have been. Once, the societal fabric was strong.
Elites were to be feared and respected. The council was aspirational. The
Crown, that most distant of ambitions, a hunger in the hearts of all men of
order.

No longer. You only need sit in a drinking establishment to learn that the
peasants have lost faith. That the Empire is no longer feared. That the
council is no longer aspired to. That the Crown is no longer a thing to
strike awe in the hearts of the loyal and dread in those that would oppose.
Perhaps worst of all, that the Oath, that sublime masterpiece, is
considered optional, or perhaps even worse, inconvenient.

So is this the fate of all that walk in darkness?

Will we ever be our own undoing?

Will the Light win?

I say no.

After all, for all the Empire's failings, this is a simple problem at its
core.

As my dear father would so often say over the evening meal...

Its all just marketing.

Role

Chapter 5

When I told my parents over the evening meal I wished to study marketing,
my father had never looked so proud. At the same time, I rather thought my
mother was dying of shame, and I suspect only my swift clarification that
it was for a path into politics spared me an introduction to her butter
knife. With both progenitors mollified, cooperation was soon achieved to
secure me an education.

My mother wished to send me to Teth Azeleth, though quite what she expected
me to learn of the subject there I am uncertain. When my father pointed out
my gender would preclude me from a higher education and war nearly broke
out within our dining room, my diplomatic prowess was upon full display.
Why not here, I asked? Both soon united in their disdain for the quality of
opportunity available within the Sultanate.

Haggling was performed. My future was bartered with, traded back and forth
multiple times, before at last an acceptable compromise was achieved. Even
my mother begrudgingly admitted that the Arkham University was a passable
institution of higher learning, even if they permitted all manner of rifraf
to attend alongside their betters.

So it was that I was packed off on the Outlaying Outcast to Arkham, and my
real education could begin.

Role

Chapter 6

Professor Strig'it Haver'shm looked out upon her class. Such a good batch
this year. Why, perhaps if she could find an asthetically pleasing one she
could even recommend them to the family back home. A campaign scribe,
perhaps? Something ultimately unimportant, but that they could point to as
giving opportunities to the young and driven members of society. Perhaps
even one of the half elves. Not that drow at the back, of course, a good
student but you couldn't be seen to be trying too hard. Showing you were
inclusive to the downtrodden of society was all well and good, but it had
to be subtle.

Yes. All things to consider.

Ruffling her wings, the chief marketing professor of the Arkham University
spread her hands in a disarming gesture as she rattled off her prepared
speech to her students. So proud, best class she'd ever taught, will go far.
.. too much? Hmm, yes, that drow had narrowed his eyes at her. Never stop
learning... much better. It was always such a joy to see suspicion vanish
like that. How to wrap this up.

"And never forget, class," said Professor Haver'shm as she flared her wings
dramatically, "that the most important thing in marketing is your brand!"

"And optics!" chorused her class back at her, an established tradition of a
year near bringing a tear to her eye, and not even a fake one.

Ah, but how she loved her job.

Role

Chapter 7

I quickly realised during my studies that my chosen guild would dictate a
great deal when it came time to begin my work in truth with the Empire.

The sects are four. The blades are simple, though perhaps the most overtly
important. They capture the lands. The people. The physical.

The divine. These capture the minds of men. Bind them with chains of faith.
Indeed, this was high on my list.

The black and shadow are more complex. The shadows, these capture the
tongues of men. Capture their belongings. But I think most of all, they
make men fear. A sect I would stay well clear of, for though one could
market them as unseen security, their true purpose will be forever to lay
blame on. To be the unseen sword that hangs by a thread over the head of
those who consider descent.

So what of the black? What is their purpose?

It is funny that the sect I dismissed will be the one which I seek, for
what the Black captures is not knowledge, or power, or anything so simple.
The Black captures the imagination of the masses. The peasantry look up at
a mighty necromancer or dark knight, and ask: how far can they go. It is an
open question, which are the most powerful tools when marketing. People
will fill in the answers themselves, and what is perceived near almost
always exceeds reality.

I will be one of the dark knights. Undeath is risky, but more to the point:
they are difficult to market as anything other than what they are. An
undead on a leash as Dread Lord. This would be magnificent. A great tool
for any upon the throne. But I have higher aspirations, and I do not
believe that undeath would serve my ends.

So the course is set. The campaign begins.

And darkness will reign.

Role

Chapter 8

1. Neshamar xun-Oloth grows up as a child being told stories of the great
and terrible rulers of Thera.

2. Neshamar carries this into his teenaged years, spending many a day in
the library researching the histories for himself.

3. Neshamar comes to realise the grim reality of these rulers he'd grown up
learning about. How most of them die and leave nothing behind, and how as a
result the Light is winning, or so he believes.

4. He resolves that this is due to selfishness and lack of longterm
planning, obsession with the now rather than with legacy. He wishes to
change this,, and observes that the chief problem the Empire has is it is
losing the propaganda war.

5. Neshamar joins the Arkham University for a marketing degree.

6. An insight into the kind of things Neshamar learned from the Arkham
University, from the perspective of his marketing Professor, Strig'it
Haver'shm.

7. Neshamar decides upon his brand for the work ahead. AP, not for power as
is typical, but because of how it can inspire the imagination of the
peasants. A champion of the lower class, desiring only to give them
opportunities to rise to untold heights. Its all just marketing!

Role

Chapter 9

- Neshamar is the son of two Empire spies who work as embalming fluid
merchants in Hamsah Mu'taz. He studied marketing at the Arkham University.

- Neshamar wishes to bring the Empire back to the dominant dark power
within Thera.

- Though he is aware martial might will be required for this, he believes
the true issues run deeper and that the Empire's core problem is it no
longer is aspirational to join for the peasantry.

- He believes one of the best ways to do this is to restore the belief in
people that Empire is a meritocracy. He postulates that this great lie
being believed by many was core to the Empire's past success.

- Sphere: strength. Though this might apply martially, its more about the
strength of conviction.

- He is AP specifically because he believes AP is the best thing for
inspiring the imagination of the populus at large outside of an undead, and
undead just are dreadful to market so that's just out of the question.

- Will follow Rillan.

Immortal Comments

Role

Chapter 11

Outside on the Arkham streets, Neshamar brutally suppressed the urge to
shake his fist at the establishment, for you never knew who was watching.

How in the nine hells was joining an etiquette class going to be harder
than securing support to be the Imperial Dread Lord?

Role

Chapter 12

As Neshamar stood before the resplendent Lord Rillan, he felt
uncharacteristically nervous. His Lord had said he could only ask for so
much, and Neshamar understood immediately that he had been rebuked. A
misunderstanding, but misunderstandings were the foundations of excuses. He
could not afford excuses, even if his Lord would tolerate them, which
doubtlessly He would not.

A subtle rebuke, this time, as he knew his achievements had not been small,
but one he would learn from. Next time, his Lord would have no reason not
to believe he could always expect more from him. That discomfort was soon
tempered by pride, however. Him. Dread Lord, and still so young! Yes, it
could so easily be snatched from him, as had been made all too clear by the
Shadow Lord's recent fall, but truly his faith had been rewarded. Lord
Rillan's tenets, even in his initial understanding had proved their
puissance in the political theatre, and this was only the beginning.

As he left the mountain palace, he was already beginning to court the
possible candidate for the next Shadow Lord. He had been expecting quite
the dance, of wordplay and wits, but instead his interlocutor openly
declared his intention to take the throne, before hurriedly walking it back
to a mildly less treasonous claim.

Neshamar wasn't quite sure how to react for a moment, and almost wondered
if this was some subtle entrapment to draw out his own intentions. As the
conversation continued however, he became increasingly convinced it was not.
He rather felt like he was being repeatedly battered with a verbal hammer
of guilelessness, and it was honestly mildly indeering. Perhaps the Shadow
Sect were not so much to worry about after all.

Soon after, Neshamar was not feeling quite so amused. A Herald told
Neshamar that a shadow had attempted to plot with her to bring him low,,
though would not disclose the name. Thoughts raced and connections formed,
and the political web span on and on.

But that particular examination is for another day.

Role

Chapter 13

As Neshamar put the finishing flourish on his report to the citizenry at
large concerning the recent campaign, he allowed himself a private smile
about the creative interpretation of events.

All true, of course, through a certain lens, but it was all about how it
was framed. His last discussion with his Lord had hardened his resolve, for
now was his toughest challenge yet.

The throne.

He had to acknowledge that he might fail. There was always going to be a
degree of chance involved, however much he wished otherwise. That place
where politics ended and ran into the hard realities of greed and
shortsightedness had been the doom of many an imperial ambition.

But that was fine. He planned to win the first opportunity he got, for as
his lord had noted so long ago now, these opportunities aren't common.

The fourth and fifth tenets of the Mauls had proved faithful allies for him
thus far, and they were weapons that he was all too happy to wield again.
The citizenry at large would see him as a champion, and the council would
grow to associate him with their leader that brought them successes. It was
a delicate balancing act, giving respect to the Emperor while
simultaneously marginalising him. He still hoped that the man who currently
sat the throne would fall a foul of his Lord's displeasure for his lack of
leadership, for he would only get one chance at a coup, and that was
ideally the contingency for if his first attempt failed.

But as an imperial clerk took his finalised report to distribute to the
Empire proper, Neshamar allowed himself a moment of rare, but sweet
indulgence as he dared to tempt fate once more.

"Just as planned."

Role

Chapter 14

Neshamar was nervous.

Things had moved more swiftly than even he had anticipated. The vote was in
progress, and now the risks were as high as they had ever been.

As were the rewards.

Neshamar knew, objectively, he could have waited. Could have indulged in
his might as the Dread Lord for a century or two. Waited for the Emperor to
succumb to time or torment. Waiting was... safe.

His vision would not be made manifest by being safe. The great triumph over
the Light could not be achieved through moderation, and with that, came
dangers.

But he was a servant of Rillan. He would carry the burdens of failure if it
came to that, and he would emerge even greater.

Not that he wasn't willing to stack the deck a little bit in his favour...

With a flourish he put the finishing touch on his missive to the Emperor
pledging unconditional support. He did not expect Hranic to survive this
vote, but it was best to be safe where one could afford to be. Maybe even
in a complete collapse, something could be salvaged.

The High Priest's support was a small worry. Neshamar still wasn't sure if
he believed the other wasn't running a scheme of his own, but their fates
were linked, now. If the High Priest thought to betray him and bring him
down, Neshamar as not above bringing him down with him. In that at least,
their interests were aligned.

The Shadow Lord desired the throne, and Neshamar had pressed upon him the
import that they both vote for one another without playing political games.
If Hranic wins, after all, we could all end up Anathema, he had argued.
Lets be sensible. The Shadow Lord had agreed, and he hoped that would be
enough given his excessive promises and flattery.

The War Master was the wildcard. He was a Blade, and might be predisposed
to back Hranic. Neshamar would need to work on him carefully, for anything
he said might be passed straight on to the Emperor. That would remain to be
seen.

The question was, where to vote himself?

The War master or the Shadow Lord, he was leaning towards. The High Priest
would make a far greater Emperor, but Neshamar needed roadblocks out of the
way, not to put another in power.

No. The War Master or Shadow Lord would be best, for their deaths were
closing upon them, and he would get another chance when that happened.

That too, would be acceptable.

Role

Chapter 15

It was fortunate, Neshamar mused as he stared down at his remains, that he
had prepared himself for this eventuality.

Even so the loss stung. He could see how this unmade so many of the guild.
How those who believed in all their mad hubris that they would rise and
rise and rise buckled at the moment of that destined fall. Fortunately,
he'd known this was how it would be from the first day. Had this not been
the harsh revelation that had set him on this path to begin with?

These thoughts turned over in his head as he began rapidly to reassess what
would need to happen in the days ahead. His personal power would be
diminished, but that too could be turned to advantage. On the home front,
he could either downplay the loss or play it up. Both had advantages. A
member of the guild who could fall and rise again was a thing to truly stur
the imagination of the masses, and if that could be coupled with the
perception that his ability to project martial power was mostly unchanged...

The other was to play the martyr, of course. Weighed down by terrible loss,
suffering for his people, carrying the burden for them. Perhaps even
greater rewards, but also that could so swiftly turn to pity, and that way
lead to disaster. No, the first approach would be ideal.

A question of one of his killers broke him from his musing. An expectant
query whether this was the end, then?

Neshamar allowed himself a small, humourless smile as he shook his head.
After all, while the home front was a complex matter, the rebellions were
far simpler. All he needed to do was continue on, and that would shake them
more than anything else he could possibly concoct. The great respite of the
Light after all was that the truly dangerous members of his guild were
terrors, but a single moment of fortune could end them. It was a fact.
Everyone knew it. So he answered the misplaced query with a simple answer.

"This is just the beginning."

Role

Chapter 16

"The Emperor is dead! Long live Emperor Neshamar!"

Neshamar would have let out a breath of a relief if he was not, in spite of
the Warlock's declaration, currently a ghost. He would have to remain here
in Thar-acacia until he could reclaim his body, for he would not make his
first appearance before the citizenry as their new Emperor while not at his
best. That would just be terrible for optics.

Even to the very last moment, he had not been sure. Had Hranik got to the
War Master? He didn't think so. Was the High Priest running his own scheme
this whole time? Distinctly possible. Was the Shadow Lord going to try to
be clever and doom them all? The highest of all possibilities.

But he had won. By the grace of Rillan, he had dared to risk it all,
throwing all conventional wisdom of caution and biding ones time for an
opportunity that may never come to the side and daring to play the great
game with the board on the brink of disarray. The veterans of the council
had danced to his tune, set against one another and falling under the sway
of his grand narrative of why anyone but Hranik must win.

The Crown was his, for now. The Empire was his, for now. Opportunity was
his, for now.

His Lord had been pleased. A simple statement and a nod, but what higher
praise could there be? None, Neshamar believed, and it would not be the
last time, either. Wealth was an ever present problem, for his campaigns
were draining on the best of days, but he would still achieve it. How his
reign would be forever remembered, his own form of immortality, was a
different thing entirely. That dark ambition, the terrible resolve of his
youth to see the Light's dominance broken would be a product of his work
here, but it would not be how he was remembered, that he was sure of.

But before all of that could be determined, his first two dilemmas struck
one after another.

Role

Chapter 17

If Neshamar had been a kind man, he would never have entertained Vizbahk's
petition for the seat of War Master. Brenwade had been an honest supporter
of his in the vote, and had fought well for his Empire. Yet he signed it
without much hesitation. He would not let sentimentality cloud his vision
as so many Emperor's had before him, and Brenwade was both lacking in
presence and an inferior general to his soon successor. Besides, perhaps
this would galvanise him to seek to retake his seat. Time would tell.

Indeed it did tell, for Vizbahk shortly proved himself unfit, and an
irritated Neshamar needed to retract his missive post haste. A lesson, he
supposed. The seemingly unbreakable all had a breakingpoint, and factoring
that into future plans would need to be a higher priority. Another
successor to Brenwade would need to be found post haste, but first.

The other dilemma. The death of the Shadow Lord was almost his first great
failing as an Emperor.

He'd signed the petition. Addressed it to all relevant parties, and sent it
on its way without much of a second thought. Vrala would be a poor Shadow
Lord, he had mused in the time after the clerks departure, but it would be
an acceptable price to retain his power over the codex.

The insidious thinking, he so abruptly realised, which had got the Empire
to where it now was. Losing ground after ground after ground to the
despised Redhorn rebellion.

The clerk was recalled immediately. The decree reclaimed and incinerated in
a ball of unholy flame.

There would be no compromising on his vision. His council must be seen to
be excellent. Even if that meant hardship for himself.

And if the seat would sit empty as a result? So be it.

Now, he'd just have to explain himself to his Lord, if he could not fill
the position quickly enough...

Role

Chapter 18

Neshamar did not much care how the dramatics with Wumrg inevitably
concluded. If payment was made and the duergar proved capable of following
law, there would be a wonderful success story which he could hold up to the
masses. A formally undisciplined and degenerate barbarian, only needing the
gentle guidance of the Empire to unlock her potential... yes. It
practically wrote itself. On the other hand, if she failed, that was fine
too. It was good to remind the masses on occasion that there was a stick as
well as a carrot, and a ready made example and a fresh anathema while not
optimal would ultimately serve his plans.

All of this and more ran through the drow's thoughts as he climbed the
winding paths up the Udgaardian mountains, that holy pilgrimage he'd made
many times before.

This time was different, though.

This time he'd been invited.

Neshamar took great satisfaction in his work. A malign joy in what he was
doing. That inexorable slide towards the Light's triumph may not yet have
been haulted, but it had slowed. With his Lord's guidance and his own
ambition, the Empire was no longer the laughing stock of Thera. And soon...

But to be invited to his Lord's primary residence? That was different.

Neshamar knew his faith was unshakable, for had Rillan not raised him up
from a wealthy merchant's son to the most powerful mortal man in Thera? Yes.
His faith was never in doubt, and yet he often felt he was imposing. He
knew how he valued his time, and his Lord must value his own all the more.

So to be invited?

That meant everything. That was a triumph beyond the crown.

We will not speak of what transpired within that audience, for some things
are not meant for the sharing. Yet as Neshamar gazed out from his Lord's
palace and down at the mark adorning his skin in turn, he swore an oath of
a different kind.

He whispered the terrible promise scribed upon skin, and he allowed his
kind mask to slip in this most private place to reveal the malevolence
beneath as he smiled.

There was much work to do.

Role

Chapter 19

Neshamar put the finishing touches on the document concerning the fourth
law with a small smile. It was so wonderful when the Citizenry gave him
opportunities to push his own agenda without it seeming forced.

His attempts to keep the sects divided and yet moving in the same direction
was challenging given the Empire's rapid growth beneath his rule, but it
was still working well, even if a degree of adaptation had been required.

Originally, he had actually planned to be the distant and eternally
disappointed parental figure to the Black. It had ever been a sect that
embodied feast or famine, either producing mediocrity or excellence. With
his ascendency to the throne, he had been rather expecting the former, but
indeed, the Black had flourished in recent years.

So instead, the Blade now got that dubious rward. It was important to seem
harsh, but fair with them. Be good to the lower ranks, but constantly
lament the failings of the Elites. Yes. That was going well, and was true,
too. The elites were lackluster, a state of affairs the War Master was
frantically trying to resolve.

The Blacks had his favour, for now. That was expected, and his
interpretation of the fourth law would make that clear. It would also
increase the chance of Imperial law coming into conflict with the Spire's,
a thing that was all to the good as his grip upon Thera tightened. It would
need to be made clear which law reigned supreme, and while former Emperors
had foolishly favoured open war with the Tribunal to achieve such, Neshamar
considered himself a more enlightened man. It was all about perception,
after all, and he fully intended for the masses to perceive the Empire's
law was peerless. He might have to humble the Spire, depending upon the new
Provost, but time would tell. Of course, when one inevitably overstepped
his interpretation, the sect would fall out of favour, and the process
could begin a new.

The Shadow was some of his finest work. A Shadow Lord loathed by all, an
Elite who was competent but disliked, and a couple of hopefuls in the lower
ranks. Their role in his empire as the sect that all else could unite
behind hating was going just perfectly, though he might need to fan that
fire a little more in the days to come. Perhaps give the Shadow Lord more
unpleasant duties? Something to consider.

The Divine, though. That sect was growing strong, and the High Priest had
done a very good job at making them invaluable to his Empire. Something
would need to be done there, and soon. A unifying force had its place, but
only in the Crown's hands.

Neshamar tapped the fingers of one hand against the words scribed upon his
skin as he considered.

Ah, yes.

That would be just the thing.

Role

Chapter 20

Neshamar did so enjoy the voting process.

There was something so profoundly satisfying about moving the pieces around
to fit his desired result, and the latest iteration had been particularly
useful.

His concerns over the growing influence of the Divine sect had been the
spark for the process. A few encouraging words and questioning of Priest
Kolgrek's ambition after he had been blessed with the Lord's mark had been
a good start. The hunger for a seat upon the council was an easy thing to
spark, and once sparked that never really went away. Yes. It had been a
good start, and had already born fruit.

But that would not be quite enough. Not unless he in fact raised Kolgrek,
which, though it would doubtlessly be wise to do, should not be done quite
yet. The risk of Quzevril taking it with good grace and the bonds of unity
in the Divine strengthening as a result was too high.

No, something else had been needed.

A tie, and the revelation of the names of the schematic drafters for the
revote.

Neshamar understood the followers of the Lord more than most, and he knew
without a doubt that a slight upon something they had worked on would be a
wound that would strike at the heart of them: and now, one was certain to
suffer it, and know it was by the others design.

The tie had been difficult to arrange, and perhaps the Dread Lord would
resent him slightly for his hand in creating it where the Black was
concerned, but he was an easily soothed man and Neshamar did not foresee
longterm difficulties. A gentler hand than where the Blade was concerned
would be appropriate, just enough to express displeasure but no more.

The aging Emperor allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as everything
fell into place.

Just as planned.

PK Wins

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Edges

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PK Wins

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