"A man who is used to acting in one way never changes; he must come to ruin when the times, in changing, no longer are in harmony with his ways." - Niccolò Machiavelli.
It was a cold day in the Lirae District of Margraves, as cold as it could be in the dark, unending night. It rained, as much as it could, and the thick blankets of fog left the air dreary. Artemis Starke, son of Myron Starke, sat at his father's side, even at the moment of his death, which was certain. It was all he could do for the man he respected, when his mother no longer remained.
"If there's one thing I would like to see, a lasting thing, it would be your smile. I hope you will fall in love. Get married, perhaps. Have a family…"
Artemis grasped at his father's hand, his expression cold and calm.
"Father, aren't I smiling now?"
"No, Arte, not at all."
His face twisted slightly, a little embarrassed, but entirely regretful.
"Is that truly your final wish?"
"I'm certain of it…" his father's voice had grown weaker, more despondent.
Artemis nodded his head. "Alright, if that's all you want, I can get it done."
He looked away for a moment, glancing out of the window towards the garden outside. Sitting at an iron-wrought black table amidst the blossoming heraflowers, golden in bloom, his little brother Willow remained.
"What of Willow? Of the Lordship? I don't really want it…" his gaze narrowed, glancing back toward his father. The strength of his grasp had faltered, cold and stiff, and his gaze was hollow and blank, staring endlessly on towards the wall as if it were a sea of stars. It was blank; there was nothing to be enamored by, and so Artemis knew his father had died.
He placed his father's hand onto his chest, a solemn pose, before standing apart from his bedside, bowing slightly with a hand to his own chest. It was a standard greeting, a standard goodbye, the last gesture of respect he would offer to Myron Starke, Lord of the Lirae District of Margraves, and the Head of the Starke family.
It wouldn't have been an oversight to say he had not accomplished much in his lifetime, that was true. But it wasn't the sort of thing that mattered to Myron Starke— success, that was. As long as his family remained fed and clothed, smiling, and the people of his district of amiable disposition, he could have called his life a good one. Artemis was sure that he did, but now he was dead, and the Lordship remained unclaimed.
Artemis stepped out of his father's bedroom, speaking casually to the attendant who remained outside.
"Cercival, go to the Steward. Gather him and the Archivist. Bring them to Willow, and then prepare a carriage. I've decided on what I shall do."
"Are you still hung up over it, young Master?" Cercival chimed, a pleasant and amiable tone washing over Artemis.
As he adjusted his lapel, his hand shaking, he let out a sigh, trying to steady himself. "I'm not like my father, not even the echo of him, so how could I accept the Lordship? Just because I am the oldest son, I should be most suited to administrate this District? No, I will fulfill my father's wish, and live a plain life. Leave the hardships, benefits, and successes to Willow, he will prove far better suited for them."
"In that, you sound quite like your father, young Master." Cercival smiled. He raised a coat lined with blackwolf wool up towards Artemis. "To the study, I presume? It rains, even at morning. Take these precautions, at least."
Artemis nodded his head, allowing the elder attendant to slip the coat over his morning clothes. Because the study was outside, across from the home, he would have to walk through the rain. In his health, Cercival was always correct. Artemis trusted him to the fullest extent, he would never question the man's judgment.
"I have to draft a letter, I'll try all methods. Someone will reach out for me, as long as I keep making attempts. This curse of our people, don't you think it proves too disdainful?"
Cercival shook his head. "There are those that look at us as lesser than people, perhaps. But it remains that we are all human, even if we have to bear our past. There will be someone who accepts that, no matter what it is you're seeking."
Artemis's lip trembled, gazing down at the ground.
"Prepare a meal, too. I might be all night at work."
Cercival nodded. "Very well, young Master. Black or red tea?"
"Red, please. And make sure Willow spends some time alongside father. Then, prepare the funeral. In three days, perhaps, I will leave, wherever I have been offered a place."
After making several such requests to the attendant, whom he knew would fulfill what was asked of him at all costs, he adjourned from the main house and stepped out into the rain. Despite the downpour and the heavy mist, the blanket of crystalline stars atop the cavern ceiling shone down brightly, illuminating the grassy ground below.
Crossing the stone path past the outer edge of the garden, he came to the study, and lit the oil lamp beside the door before entering. It was customary, to let it be known that the Masters of the home were at work, that they should not be disturbed unless it was necessary.
Who should I write to first? Who would listen? House Castel? House Marin? Does House Harrino even have any daughters?
He sat down at the desk at the edge of the study, smiling faintly as he let out a chuckle.
Perhaps I should write to the Witch-King and request his hand in marriage. Wouldn't that be a sight? Artemis Starke wedded to the saviour of the Blackbaast…
In the dark, unending night of the cavern, the ruler of the Blackbaast, the Witch-King, was nearly equivalent to a Deity. At the very least, he was worshiped as if he were such.
The Blackbaast, the small continent that endlessly floated along the Obsidian Sea in rhythmic cycles was obscured by the craggy cavern littered with star-like crystals scattered against the ceiling. In that abominable world, humanity festered like its plague; it certainly didn't belong, more befitting of monsters than men. And certainly, there were monsters, but most remained oblivious to their existence, protected and guided by the families of Lordship like the Starkes of the Lirae District in Margraves.
If he were to write to this figurehead of Humanity's survival, would he be able to gain audience? It was far more likely that he would simply be captured and beheaded for making such a joke. Then again, as the eldest son of a Lord, even a disdainful bearer of a curse, wasn't it impossible to kill him over such trivial matters? It might not even reach particularly powerful eyes, read and burnt by an attendant in the span of seconds, discarded as if useless.
Artemis placed a quill to the parchment, scrawling out the flowery lines of declaration, of his intent to offer his hand.
August Lunastre, of the Throne of the Witch-King in Henem, to his heart, I would confess my love and desire to wed…
===
Three mornings later, when the crystals in the sky had begun to shine a bit brighter, the fog having dissipated, a funeral was held to honour the life of Myron Starke. Beside the tomb of which his wife and their mother, Laurel, had been buried, many of those living in the Lirae District had gathered in attendance. Shopkeepers, working men, and women of homesteads had all arrived; Myron's life had demanded that much respect, not of his reign, but of the love he had shown for them.
Cercival stood beside Artemis at the front of the crowd, solemn, but he said nothing at all, not of business, nor of the requests that he had undertaken a couple nights prior. It was out of place to speak of such things. He was only there for Artemis, and for the respect of his former Master, Myron.
Willow, Artemis's younger brother, was absent, and that was for good cause. Due to Artemis's preparations, he would become the Lord of the Lirae District, and had need to prepare himself well. Although only fourteen years of age, with the help of their familys' Steward, and alongside the Archivist who held knowledge not Artemis or Willow alike knew, he would certainly thrive. That boy had always been far more alike to their father, and so Artemis was certain he was better suited for the task.
One by one, each member in attendance brought forth a glimmering white flower adorned with lilac speckles. It was the runeflower, the symbol of their House, and so it was ritual practice to blanket one's corpse with it. In death, life should still bloom, or something to that effect.
Artemis stepped forth, gazing down at the cold body of his father in the hearse that had been arranged for him. He threw down the flower, a calm, unmoving expression on his face.
As it's been arranged, I will definitely succeed, father. But why was your wish for me so bare? Did you not expect anything of me? Or was this just another facet of your character, that you would like to see me happy even after your lifetime has run short? As I thought, I could never think the same, and so I'm definitely not worthy of succeeding your legacy…
As he gazed over the proceedings, Artemis raised a hand to an eyepatch resting over his left eye; it pulsed with pain, it was almost unbearable.
Lark, remain still. There's no need to effectuate the contract, not yet. Are you so anxious to act? These are peaceful times, this is an era without infighting. If you wish it so badly, we can seek a small monster later, so rest yourself for the time being…
As his ruminations echoed through his mind, the pulsing on the left side of his head stopped, and the pain ceased. He let out a sigh, a slight smile crossing his lips as it reminded him of an urgent matter.
"Cercival, I've received a response."
"So soon? And from who? Shall we depart shortly?" The elder attendant echoed concerns as he glanced over towards Artemis.
"We'll travel to the Capital after these proceedings. The Witch-King has summoned me to his court."