A Meeting With The King

An "OLAF" creature has asked that I post something to this group. I have agreed, but I shall enjoy the subsequent dissection process all the more because of it. I doubt, though, that I will find much of use inside him to further my pursuit of perfection.

He seems to be quite the idiot.

I am Korluus, the Emerging, the Keeper of Relois

A Meeting With The King

The priest king Horash, Horash the undying, the ever-wakeful king; Seshmut considered the many names of his lord as he sat in the comfortable antechamber, it's softly luxurious divans arrayed along one wall facing a beautifully carved mural. The room smelled of sweet spices and scented oils, probably burning in the ensconced torches that lined the walls and, though it was silent, Seshmut imagined he could hear the ghost of distant music softly played.

Seshmut was a mere two hundred years old, far too young to be meeting the ancient lord of the blessed sands. His black ma'iyl whispered softly as he crossed one knee over the other and reclined more comfortably on the divan. He turned his gaze to the mural covering the upper-half of the opposite wall. He had already memorized all the tales of the great resurrection, he knew of the plague of Elioshi that the spiteful god had released upon his followers, he knew of the gifts of Sehalel when great Horash had turned his people away from that bitter god and ordained among them a new deity to worship.

He had even memorized the generally forbidden tales of the Yeter, those heretical worms who capricious Elioshi had spared from the plague. Seshmut gazed now on the beautiful carving of the great cavern around which the city of Haru-Nephesh was built, and the group of priests and nobles depicted standing at its entrance, he knew the tales of each one, even the foolish Amon-hur, the priest who had turned on Horash and become the first sacrifice to beautiful Sehalel.

The doors to the kings personal chamber swung open, two skeletal servants, their glistening bones scoured of any fleshly remains that may disparage their grim beauty, standing behind them, the gems that adorned the forheads and eyes of the creatures glinted softly in the lamplight. From between the doors stepped an imposing figure, taller than normal for a Neshilim, his head was shaved and bore the scarifications of the priesthood, the priest's spell which enraptured the minds of lesser beings.

The man stepped forward, entering the room with a slow and deadly grace that bespoke skill born of long decades of harsh practice. Then he bowed, though not low, the tails of his gray beged falling loosely below the blackened iron rings of his armor, the leather of his sword's scabbard rubbing against his leg. When he rose he gestured curtly toward the door with one hand, the other resting comfortably on the hilt at his waist. In a courteous tone he said “The king will see you now Serpent-Child Seshmut. If you would follow me.”

The statement was a command, couched in a silky, non-threatening voice, not a request and Seshmut rose immediately to join the man, though he suspected that it was not a man at all. Seshmut stared at the the guide's armored back as he walked behind him into the short hallway between the antechamber and the king’s private meeting rooms. “You are…well, aren’t you?” he whispered, his voice shaky, hesitant with fearful expectancy.

“Yes, I am.” There was a smile suggested in the man’s tone, a thin smile that spoke of indifferent yet absolute authority, “I am an immortal, one of the kings chosen few,” he looked back, a harsh glint in his one visible gray eye, his lip turned upward to reveal a single sharp tooth, “even the priesthood does well to fear us.”

Seshmut gulped involuntarily, “I…” he started, his voice quivering slightly, “I will remember that.”

The immortal faced forward again, though Seshmut could still see that single sharp tooth in his mind, and hear the smile in the immortal's voice as he replied, “Good, then all is as it should be.”

The short walk ended in a pair of elegant doors cut from some black wood that seemed to gulp in the hallways light, never to be released, Seshmut could barely make out patterns carved into the doors, they reminded him of the priest's spell, but more intricate, more elegant, more deliciously intriguing and they seemed to twist and move in the darkness of the doors themselves. Seshmut stared for a few moments, caught up in the patterns, then tore his eyes away to find his dreadful guide watching him intently. The man was smiling widely now, his sharp, white teeth fully revealed and the scent of old and rotten meat heavy upon his breath, Seshmut took a step back.

“Good,” the immortal's soft voice caressed his ears, “we eat those who are too caught up in the mysteries.” Then he opened the doors and allowed Seshmut to pass.

Seshmut trembled as he passed the immortal and entered the chamber beyond, it was small, but brightly lit with well appointed furnishings, the kind of luxury that only immense wealth or royalty could afford. Horash, reclining on a divan in the center of the room, had both. A low table of exotic wood, a rich and polished red, sat before him, ancient texts lain out upon it, along with a silver pitcher, from which rose the fruity smell of a sweet wine, and two silver cups. Black eyes transfixed him and Seshmut stopped just inside the doorway, he stood shivering under his king’s cold gaze. Then the eyes moved on and the king waved a careless hand at the divan opposite his, “Lay down, relax. This is simply an informal meeting.”

Seshmut walked slowly, cautiously to the divan and awkwardly reclined upon it as the king poured two glasses of the fruity wine and offered one to him. As Seshmut grasped the cup, and brought it gratefully to his lips, the king spoke, his soft voice seeming a thunderous retort in the still and fearful silence of the room. “I have followed your progress Seshmut, you are a good student, and will make a fine priest. But your teachers report that you are still hesitant in the sacrifices. Why is that?”

Seshmut stiffened further in his divan, he woodenly drew the cup from lips and licked them twice, then, staring steadfastly at the table, he replied, “It is not that I feel any sympathy for the lesser races my king, if that is what you think. But, the blood, it seems so…unclean.” As the last word left his wet and trembling lips he lifted his eyes to meet those of the king, another cold shiver causing him to spill a little wine on his robe.

The king smiled, lips spread wide enough to show his teeth, in mirth, “I see, the lesser races are unclean, which is why our god demands them in sacrifice. We are chosen Seshmut, we are the chosen of Sehalel, the people called by his name.” Horash paused at this, reaching down to casually flip open one of the books that sat, like patient scholars, waiting to share their knowledge, “You know the story of the first ritual. That right was the first, and last, time that Sehalel demanded his own people in sacrifice.” The king's eyes--deep, black pits whose depths Seshmut could not plumb--shot up to transfix Seshmut once again, his voice now harsh, hungry, for what Seshmut did not know, “The power of the blood fuels our rituals; it is the power that supports our empire. But to use such pure blood as our own would dishonor Sehalel.” The king smiled softly and his voice returned to its former tone, though now Seshmut could not decide whether the soft echo was more pleasing--or more disturbing, “The lesser races are nothing but food and fuel to us, even our cousins, the Yeter…no, especially our cousins, who denied the gifts of Sehalel and serve the thrice cursed . What better use have they?”

“I know my king,” Seshmut stumbled over his words in awkward hurry, “it is simply a…a compulsion, I feel the blood flow over my hands and a desperate need to be clean quickly follows it.” His eyes dropped down to the table again, his face reddening slightly, “I have no excuse.”

Horash nodded, silvery hair bobbing slightly with the movement, as he considered Seshmut's dilemma, “Even so, this compulsion is not something undefeatable,” He reassured the young priest. “I will speak with your instructors; they will help you through this. You have a great future Seshmut, I can see it in you, great things await you, things that will benefit this empire forever.”

Seshmut stared, he had no response to the king's rarely given praise. He lifted his shaking hand to take another long drink from the wine and wondered at the compliment, the silence grew heavy and he realized that the king was waiting for a reply, “I, um,” he faltered, not sure what to say, “I will try to live up to your expectations.”

The king smiled mirthfully again, then waved a dismissive hand, “You may go Seshmut, return to your duties and remember that Sehalel has given us dominion over the lesser races, they exist to serve us, unclean or not.”

Seshmut rose and walked out of the room, his guide returned to escort him, though he felt it no favor. As the doors closed behind them a tapestry at the back of the room was pushed aside and Abin'kor, head of the instructors at Keber-Shenephesh, stepped out of the passage hidden behind it. “Your orders my king?”

Horash drained his cup and then, without turning, said, “Involve him in more sacrifices, help him to make the transition. That one has much promise; I don’t want him lost to squeamishness.”

Abin'kor inclined his head, “As you command my king.”