In the southern deserts of the old continent lies a small town, Polpak, which is lorded over by two ruling families, the Montagues and the Capulets. For almost 7 decades, the land has been at war, though not in a form humans may recognize. Greed and desire for power has held the continent a stagnant hostage to a vicious game of musical chairs. Despite a small respite from the war, a cruel wind is blowing across the land, for the members of the Supreme Council have recently decided that, rather than be a pawn in the games of the Montagues and Capulets, they would like to be players. This is the beginning of the end, no doubt.
But perhaps you should know how it all began, or the story onwards may seem a bit confusing. You might recognise the names of these families, and you may already know of their famous feud. We’ll start with that.
The Montagues came by their wealth through stealth and thievery, but hid it so well that even their slaves believed the Montagues came by their wealth honestly and through hard work. Blinded by the small tokens of appreciation that was handed down to them from time to time, the slaves served loyally and worked tirelessly for their master. It wasn’t long before old man Montague claimed the town of Polpak as his personal fiefdom, declared himself king, and with the help of his trusted Captain of the Guards, Captain Capulet, set out to conquer the South Continent.
Several years and almost a generation went by under the rule of the Montagues. During that time, the continent’s wealth seemed to fade away, for the king was selfish, and refused to consider the woes of any except those who catered to his every whim. Large parts of the continent withered in neglect, as the king’s family grew larger, and his appetite for luxury became insatiable.
In time, men came to the small town to beg the Captain for assistance. The king’s levies were becoming impossible to bear, their families were starving and Montague showed no sign of aging or stepping down. They laid their meagre savings at his feet and swore allegiance to him if he were to remove the king from power. Capulet considered the small amount of gold being presented to him. In his years with the Montagues, he had come to appreciate the glimpses of their lifestyle, but as an outsider to the family, he had felt the stirrings of envy, and the germ of a desperate need to have for himself what his king luxuriated in every day.
Now, the pleas of these men seemed to open a golden window in front of his eyes, and a vision came to him.
Capulet saw himself in a robe of softest silk, trailing far on the ground behind him. Huge emeralds sparkled at his collar, and his sword shone blue from encrusted diamonds in the hilt. Behind him, in large swathes of movement, a crowd so immense that it stretched beyond the eye could see, the people of the continent roared out a chant of ‘Our Captain, our King’.
A red haze seemed to descend upon the Captain. He accepted the pitiful offerings of the people. With the gold in his hand, he ordered the blacksmith to create armor from the strongest steel to fit his able body. In the meantime, he strode to the home of the head of the Supreme Council, and signed a pact of blood. Together, they conspired to kill the King, and exile his offspring to the cold mountains of the North Steppes. In return, the Supreme Council were to receive a share of the King’s wealth.
The Captain carefully whetted his guards, and chose those most loyal to him to carry out his mission. On a moonless night, in the depths of darkness and wrapped in his new armor, he crept into the palace of the King, and silently stole the power he craved.
Before the sun could cast its first shadow, the Montague survivors and their most loyal slaves were already on their way to the North Steppes, and the Supreme Council had handed the treasury keys to Capulet.
When Capulet returned to the men who had approached him, he carried a bloodied dagger in his hand. Upon seeing this, the men of the continent almost wept with relief, and immediately bowed down before Capulet. They had sworn their allegiance, and could look forward to favor from the new king.
In the distance, a bent and tired old man sat on a rock and watched the small ceremonial gathering of men. He watched as one of the kneeling men rose to wrap the armored man with a long robe that trailed far behind. As the procession moved towards the palace, people coming out of their homes on their way to work fell in with the men, and the old man let out a sharp breath of fear.
In the strange light of early morning, the dark clothing of the men seemed to turn deep red, and the pushing, heaving bodies of men behind their new king looked like a trail of blood. As an omen for the future, the old man considered this among the worst. He began to shout to the followers to fall back, but he was too far, and too feeble to move fast enough to keep up with them.
His words flew out into the air and seemed to dissipate in a wist of fog, falling unheeded to the ground, now red and bloodied beyond recognition.
(Check back soon for Part 2)