Devils Temptation
Planetoid
- Joined
- Jan 14, 2021
Here, the earth breathes softly,
its skin covered in a living tapestry of color.
Each blossom opens like a whispered secret,
revealing its heart to the sky.
The air is thick with the scent of life,
wild and unashamed,
and the wind moves gently,
as if careful not to disturb the fragile beauty.
In this place, time forgets to move.
The petals fall slowly,
not as endings, but as beginnings—
a cycle of quiet rebirth.
This is a land where sorrow cannot root,
where even the stones are cradled
by the soft embrace of green,
and all that blooms, blooms forever.
Ash, blood, and the sounds of pleading screams. There were few hallmarks as potent in war as the scent of death. Oftentimes, that stench and noise clung so tightly to the survivors that it followed their every movement and thought until their very last dying days. Unfortunately, that was hardly the worst aspect of it all. Those who perished in a battle were oftentimes the lucky ones. Those that remained? Soldiers that lived were a commodity. Refined gradually through one Hell-like battle after another... each and every single one culling off more and more. Some might have described it as a blessing to make it from one battle to the next, others would refer to it as a curse. Everyone that fell lingered somewhat on the people who remained. Every ally, every family member, every life taken hung on like a ghoul to the backs of those who treaded onto the next day. With everyone single departed, that weight only grew heavier and more bitter.
That desire for revenge only grew stronger.
The hatred only seemed to seethe more, as if everyone taken had collectively aimed their grievances into the remaining few that survived.
If he closed his eyes, he could remember them. Those flowers. Clouds above like pure wisps of sugary floss. Brisk, chilled that slipped into his lungs like a fresh sip of cold water on a hot day. If he kept his eyes closed for too long, that sight was inevitably replaced by the sight of something else -
Ash, blood, and the sounds of pleading screams.
"You must understand, don't you?! Just like with us, that foul bitch stole everything that was precious to us! You must have been a good man once, you must have seen what the Empire leaves in its fucking warpath!" Pleading words from a hoarse throat, the palm of an older man clenching the chest plate atop himself. Numerous scarring had woven down the entirety of his facial features, a carve to his lip, a nick to his ear... an eyepatch lingering over his left eye likely after being lost in battle. Saddled against the right half of his chest were numerous medals and honorable accolades from his time in battle, but in that moment he had been steadily tearing them off one by one. Each and every single one was cast onto the ground with another thrust.Each one at the foot of those black greaves that stood right in front of him. Torn and shattered apart. Stomped furiously as if every shove of his heel would smother the actions that had awarded him those medals in the first place. Pleadingly, he wrapped his hands together and lowered his forehead to the younger raven-haired knight in front of him.
"Why are you throwing all your awards onto the ground? They're the evidence that your loyalty belongs to the Empire. In this world, where the Empire is the one faction that rises above all... you're casting away everything that gives you value." Calmly, with a tone like pure ice, the younger man knelt and picked up the stomped down medals. Five of them that had been torn off the side of the older soldier's jacket. Nestling them into his grip like a delicate bouquet of flowers, he shoved one back onto the man's chest.
"Battle of Nightfall Creek. You bravely lead your cavalry amongst a larger force of infantry and completely eradicated every man in the platoon. To the point that the entirety of that tribal nation's population collapsed and was assimilated over night." One instance of genocide. Not too unusual, for the Empire's tactics. Feeling through the other medals, he picked up another and smashed it next to the first - right back on top of the knight's chest.
"The Siege of Kyraust. For fourteen days and fourteen nights, you sat valiantly at the gates of the fortress city and starved out every man, woman, and child within those walls until - by the end of the siege - the city you entered was so famished and broken that you could count the number of families that survived could be counted on one hand." Smudged the medal with his thumb, he moved to a ribbon next... preparing to award it back to the night once again before his wrist was clenched.
"Please... you know. You know why it had to be done. I live with those mistakes every day of my life... I have had enough. We need to stop the destruction - the loss of life. Somewhere, deep down, you know that too! Do you remember?!" One more plead to the younger knight's sensibilities... a tremor of happiness flickering along the older man's expression when he saw the knight's eyes flutter close and that faint hint of stress to clench against his jawline in a look that was equal parts pensive as it was introspective. Yes. He understood it well... the Empire was the strongest of all the nations on the continent. Spearheaded by an Empress with ultimate control and power over the whole of her empire, they operated through a system of warfare and assimilation. Neighbors and borders were constantly being raided and overtaken. Those who survived the bloodshed were given a place in the Empire - after all, it was a society that put strength above all else.
Former royalty. Generals. Anyone who could have even an ounce of value to the Empire was inevitably assimilated into their territory and their political system. They were given a place in the machine that continued to devour and take in all of those around them who were too weak to defend themselves. He was no different. The former prince of a small, mostly passive nation in the North - a place known for its flowers and a holy site for many. The type of country that one would have never expected to be raided and razed. He remembered it clear as day, when the first regiment of cavalry trampled past those meadows and set one of his villages aflame. The first of many. No amount of pleading or diplomacy would have absolved them - the Empire needed complete control of that small little nation in order to solidify a glaring hole within their borders... and so? They killed everyone that had once been in charge, they left no one but those that could be incorporated.
Out of the nearly fifty-thousand that had been living in the Principality of Floara, one hundred and fifty people survived.
Out of those one hundred and fifty who survived, one hundred and thirty were enslaved.
Nineteen were conscripted into the Empire's army.
One had been given a place among the generals of that Empire.
Prince Tyre Floara VII
A young man that had risen staggeringly quickly amongst the ranks of the Empire as a genius tactician and a fearsome general in war - capable of employing both brutal and courageous tactics while also handling himself with grace and eloquence. Soft spoken at the right times but strong and firm in the others.
When his gaze fluttered open once more, a bittersweet look lingered in his inky black eyes while his gaze remained cast down to the remaining medals on the ground. "You asked me if I remember... I do. Every time I close my eyes, I remember." Solemn, soft words that dripped a sense of understanding at the man's plight. ...And, for just a few moments, there was such an overwhelming look of relief atop the man's expression until the sudden --
CRUNCH.
SPLATTER.
SMACK.
One smooth draw of the sword at his hip, drawing one slice vertically along the man's neck to cut straight through his throat and decapitate him cleanly. A faint splash of blood danced along the tip of that blackened blade to dust Tyre's right cheek and before the head had fully rolled atop the ground, he would catch it by the hair to hold it in front of himself all while that splatter of blood wasted all over the discarded medals below.SPLATTER.
SMACK.
"There is only one thing that you should've struck. Her Highness, the Empress." That was the only damage that would do anything worthwhile. Swiping his blade off to the side, he let a slick arc of blood splatter onto the ground off his weapon before he sheathed the sword and turned around with one flourish of his cape to make his way out of the barracks where the two had been speaking to one another. It was a simple, poorly thought out plot from one of the more senior generals to recruit Tyre into a coup to overthrow the Empress.
One that failed miserably because of how laughably sloppy it was...
Seemingly from the loyalty of one of her subjects.
But...
That could not be further from the truth.
Tyre would not bother to report this incident to the Empress, however. Something so insignificant was not ultimately worth her time, he had deemed. Indeed, there were countless attempts at rebellion from within the Empire that assimilated all those that it had once declared war on and crushed beneath its boot. In that sea of those who it took under its mantle, there were many who wished to enact revenge. The larger the Empire grew, the more unstable it became. The more common these attempts had become.
Every day was another attempt to overthrow the Empire and the powers that sat atop the throne...
Every day was another failure.
They were sloppy. Their resolve was not ironclad enough. He would show them what it really meant to overthrow an Empire.
There were many pitiful attempts that oftentimes missed the ears of the Empress, but the one Tyre thwarted a few days prior was too momentous to not be heard of, whether through advisors or through traveling gossip - he would've inevitably been summoned to the royal capital to explain why he had kept secret his merciless execution of a senior general. The Royal Capital was a bastion of a city, built atop such profound hordes of gold and riches that some described it as the cradle of Heaven. No less was expected of the one woman who forged the entirety of the Empire, who ensured that all those riches - all that power - all the talent would funnel back into that one city that sat at the very center of the empire.
Tyre had arrived immediately upon being sent the letter demanding his audience to the Empress. Fresh-dressed in similarly dark colors, not a single blemish or hint of mess anywhere along his faintly pale features. Nor was there any type of concern on his expression. Keeping such information from his superior officers, in itself, could have been seen as treason. That he merely killed an accomplice that had gotten too sloppy. Treason was met swiftly with execution. In spite of it all? He merely lifted his index finer within the handle of that tea cup, bringing it to his lips for another leisurely sip until an attendant entered the waiting lounge and gave him a brief salute before announcing firmly.
"The Empress will see you now. Please leave any weapons within the lounge. They will be handled delicately and given to you upon your return!" To which Tyre had grasped the sash holding his sword to his hip and lifted it high enough to sling his arm underneath it and settle it down atop the table. With that, he followed the attendant as he was lead through those massive halls. Past several lines of infantry and numerous royal guards... and then finally brought to the towering red gates of her Highness' throne room.
He had seen those gates only once before. One mere week after his country had been razed to charcoal. When he was forced to meet the Empress' summons and she immediately took him within her army and her country... a night that replayed in his head time and time again. Silently, he treaded towards those gates to push them open with one hand and proceed into the throne room. Exactly five steps. No more, no less, before he settled into a kneel atop that red carpet and in front of the throne.
"My Empress. You have called and I have answered. Please allow me to apologize for keeping the execution of General Garm from you - I wished to lessen your work by keeping the squashing of an insignificant bug from your attention." Holding his head low, he kept his fist on the carpet and kept his other arm folded behind his back - not daring to raise his head to her. "I will accept any punishment you deem fit for my actions." Insignificant. To describe the killing of one of the most affluent and powerful generals of the Empire insignificant was nothing short of amusing. Yet, he had always been like that. No matter what problem she may have had - no matter how overwhelming or how soul-crushing it felt to resolve... he always remained in her shadows and swept it all up. Every single time.
Even this coup was no different. All of it was resolved before she even had a chance to lose a single second of sleep to the thought of it...