There were protests, marches, and screams at the top of people’s bloody lungs throughout Lumina, the people coming as close as they could to the Palace before being thrown back by sprays of water or the glares of guards and the fierce look their shillelaghs which were ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
And with in the palace, there was little difference. People were shouting about about things important and things worrying. It was bedlam, the whole of it. Bedlam contrasted only by the absolute silence and darkness of one room within the edge of the caverns under the palace.
A portable light, was the only light in that room, a plush wooden seat haphazardly placed within it. In this island amongst chaos, the King sat in that room, in silence and holding nothing but that flashlight within his teeth, and a book within both hands.
The book itself didn’t matter, as anyone who saw the not so long ago crowned King would see he was trying to distract himself from it all. Deep purple bags were under his eyes, and blood vessels could be seen in his eyes, clear and red. A dark drink with ice sat nearby, and his breath was steady but occasionally as heated and quick as those above him.
But he could not help it, and he did not see the need to show this weakness to his subjects. Despite not being raised in a monarchy, he knew very well that Kings were not supposed to be weak, not supposed to embrace the pain in their heart or stomach. But he could not help it, he could not be a unbending man all the time.
He knew his rule might be well aimed, but he had already caused plenty of family’s to be shattered, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters. All torn from this mortal coil.
Something quivered in his being, and he tried even harder to lose himself in the book he was reading.
Somewhere approximately 300 miles from Packilvania, in the Southern East Pacific Sea.
Like a preternatural mist, there was a shroud of moisture above the waves, like the sea was forcing it’s will on the air above, like it refused to be stopped by slopes and the normal paths of sea levels.
Like a floating city in this far off, isolated sea, there stood six Warreic Navy ships, tethered together with only simple chains. The majority of them stood in silence, but upon one ship, there was a larger amount of noise.
There, in full garb, stood the admiral of the southern fleet, Byrne Mac Alastar, upon the deck. A group of young men, and older men, sat upon the deck with eyes intent upon this man, and he spoke simply.
“In the situation in which the remote piloting of the Míol Mór does not work, we will need a group to pilot a second one of the ships towards Packilvania, and do what the first ship was going to attempt to do. It will have to be within seconds, because within seconds of them being able to interfere with the ship, they could likely stop it and attempt to analyze it, trying to bring up defenses. Being the pilots of the second Míol Mór, is very very likely to be a death sentence, as it is unlikely from our calculations that if Packilvania is able to mount a counterstrike immediately, that the ship will get away.”
The man looked warily to the men and boys here, the best naval pilots the service had to account for, and the bravest at that. Or stupidest, as the cynic in him gnawed.
There was no immediate answer from any of the boys or men at this meeting, no call to war like some might assume would be typical of the Warreic. There was no screaming in Gaelic about deeds and war.
There was simply a shy looking boy with eyes that looked like they were a little too red for the boy to have slept much, a boy with features that were muted to most Warreic, a boy who was nearly a man. He spoke nervously at first, as if his words and his courage were faltering. No man would want to face these demons who took the bodies of those they defeated. No man would want to face such a powerful enemy.
“I’ll pilot it. I’ve got enough experience from the simulations I’ve ran, and I’ve seen enough of how the Pack act. I think I could wing it…” His words sounded almost forced, and stopped at a forced point. But then the warrior spirit which hides in every man and woman somewhere, it broke out. “And don’t laugh at my grave, don’t think me stupid. I may be a Cu Aodh at heart, but I’m not doing it just because of the new Ri being overly chivalrous and putting us in a place that might hurt us. I just prescribe to the olden ways. There is no better death than dying to protect your family, your loved ones, your nation. If you’re going to die, at least make it by the most powerful enemy you can.” His words stumbled, and he simply looked around in a even more nervous way.
Other voices called out, no less than six, in rapid succession. “Call me a Cu Aodh, and so I shall cry havoc! So I shall let loose the true hounds of war! Scairt le Warre! Scairt le Warre!”
The admiral was at a loss of words for a few minutes, and then spoke simply. “Dismissed. To your stations, for we march to war.”
There was no tenser moment than the pause before blades were drawn, lunges thrown forth.