A Ship Run Aground - a Lands of Dust Story
Edama the Oracle had once struck an imposing figure on the oversized white marble throne in this hall, clad in fine silver chains that formed a chiton across their lithe frame, speaking prophecies from the words of gods and encouraging the then-small land of Berhia to study and honor the stories and histories of the gods, divine favor clear in each thing they did, from their throne sized to fit a god.
King Belrun, Raider-King, Last of the Mountain-Sons, Thane of Berheim and Scourge of the Snow, had once struck an imposing figure on the white marble throne he had claimed in slaying the Oracle, declaring that the Age of the Gods was over and the Age of Man had begun - if one was a man named Belrun, that is, with a bloody war-axe and a massive chest and the height and strength to beat a mountain. In his time, the throne had been decorated with the pelts of beasts and leathers made from their skins.
Queen Esme the Mechanist, ruler of the Northern Kingdoms, and Mistress of the Rivers, had once struck an imposing figure upon the white marble throne, surrounded by fine banners of indigo and silver, King Belrun lying in chains at her feet, his body shaved, his face muzzled, his cock in a strange cage of metal, his back a rest for her booted feet. The genius that some called sorcery resulting in prosperity for all - all that owed allegiance and swore fealty to her, that is.
The newly appointed Imperial Governor had had the throne removed. The stone repurposed, the throne once meant to hold a god recut into a sculpture. A sculpture of His Eminence Yam Mayim, the Emperor of the West and Keeper of the Sun's Rest, holding out a hand to his greatest advisor, Lord Cyrus the Fox, former Prince of the Northern Kingdoms. A commemoration of the official story of how the Northern Kingdoms, once the Empire's trade partner, had undergone its silent coup under the Prince's machinations. The sculpture now stood in the courtyard, impressive and inspiring, while a more simple metal chair replaced it in the throne room.
The Imperial Governor was of curly golden hair, amber eyes, and an impressive physique. A warrior as well as diplomat. Though his throne was nowhere near as fine or opulent, he struck an imposing figure nonetheless, his fine garment a brilliant blue trimmed with silver, a single sleeve down his left arm and leaving his right bare to expose part of his muscular chest and the silver adornments down his powerful arm.
"Shiplord Senma. You have been remanded into the custody of the North for your crimes against the Empire, our illustrious alliance of nations."
Senma needed no throne to cut an imposing figure. Tall beyond most men and broad to boot, he gave the air of being larger than life, rather legend than man. A sailor's braid woven into his shaggy black hair, eyes green as the sea having given rise to rumors that he was the son of the goddess of the tides. His angular jaw was covered in a scraggly beard, having had no recent chance to shave.
He had been stripped of his fine coat and boots, wearing a simple, disgracing uniform of a prisoner of the Empire. Simple sleeveless white tunic and ill-fitting trousers, and the barest foot protection.
Heavy iron shackles kept his arms behind his back, connected by thick chains both to the iron collar around his neck and a leather retaining band around his waist. Similar chains connected his ankles to each other and to the belt, ensuring his movement was hobbled, a humiliating little shuffle.
"I recognize no alliance." Senma sneered. His beard was streaked with white down his chin from the drooling the gag they had had on him, his jaw still aching from its size. But they had not broken him yet. His sea-green eyes fixed the Governor with a scornful glare.
"What you recognize or not is irrelevant." The Governor waved dismissively. "The Crown Prince Dov Etana weds Eaton Holm before the moon is full. The South is joining the Empire."
Senma scoffed, but his mind turned to the prince, or rather king, if the rumors of Old Hiram's execution were true. Could they have captured him so easily? And was he giving in to the Empire out of necessity or was it all a ruse? Senma had a feeling the lad was kept as restrained, isolated, and guarded as he was. For all Senma knew, he was the last remaining Shiplord. And that meant he needed to return home, gather the fleet to rescue their king and kin.
"He'll never submit, you bastard."
The Governor sighed. "Prisoner Senma, I place you into the custody of the royal household. You will be confined here in the palace, under the watch of myself and the Imperial Mechanist."
Senma frowned, both stern and confused. As far as he knew, the only one with such a title was Queen Esme. So the Empire had found someone to try and take her title, then?
But the Mechanist entered the room, wearing a simple leather apron over her work tunic. Her hair done up simply, not in the jewels Senma would have recognized.
"Esme," Senma breathed.
"Take him to his quarters." The Governor nodded at a guard. "The Mechanist will have time to measure him later."
Esme's eyes met Senma's, and he could read nothing in her guarded expression before an Imperial Guard unceremoniously shoved the thick leather ball back in his mouth and tied it secure behind his head. With that, he was dragged off, mind reeling.
