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* Plot Information for Dhemlan Terreille

It is natural for a Long-Lived Territory to remember the past, but it is equally essential to for them step into the future, and Dhemlan’s future is Democracy. With a proud tradition of representative government already in place, post-war Dhemlan has chosen to let the people decide their path forward. With drought and starvation looming, no one knows who the next ruler will be, but they do know this: the fate of Dhemlan Terreille will be decided not on the battlefield, but at the polls.
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Author Topic: the martyr's homecoming  (Read 54 times)

Description: mamoru

Offline Ozymandias Galante

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    • green2red
    • prince
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      Dhemlan, Terreille

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the martyr's homecoming
« on: Oct 08, 18, 02:19:44 PM »
It was a fine party, if Ozymandias did say so himself. Most parties were good parties. There had been centuries of Eyrien rule where there had been hardly any parties at all, so any reason to celebrate was welcome. Better yet was celebrating the undoing of damage the Eyriens had wrought. The old convent hadn’t looked so good in centuries, but now here it was, freshly plastered and newly painted, its wood floors polished and tile ones waxed, statues restored, paintings replaced… and the whole thing lit up with expertly-placed globes of witchfire and decorated to the nines.

The band was playing an old standard as he and Ascencion arrived. “Your mother and I danced to this song at our wedding,” he said.

His daughter made a face. “It’s that old?” she asked.

“Nearly as old as I am,” said Oz.

“And you’re ancient,” she confirmed, and pressed a dry kiss to his cheek. “I’m going to go look around. Behave yourself, Papa.”

“Be good, Sunshine,” he said, and watched her walk away. (“Don’t eat any birds!” she called over her shoulder, which he thought was absurd because he had not done so in centuries.)

Turned loose, Ozymandias moved at a leisurely pace through the foyer and into the grand hall. Before him, in all its glory, was The Flaying of the Martyr Agustín Viteri. Two meters on the short side. Three on the long. Agustín bloody but still defiant before Queen Spyridoulian. The artist had been Dhemlanese and sympathetic more to the martyr than his murderess. Agustín was handsome despite his wounds. Spyridoulian had a cold, almost inhuman beauty to her.

Suddenly, sensing another male beside him, he inclined his head to find Mamoru Salazar there. “Back where they belong,” he said, of the painting. “You should be proud of all you’ve accomplished here.”

He considered the painting again. “Do you know the story? Of Agustín and Spyridoulian?”