There had been civil times in this collision. People had carried higher born people to stone-laid meeting places and there had been good wine in good faith. The kingdom waiting to be plucked was only that, ripe with riches and, frankly, in the way. And the talons that wanted them were sharp, sturdy, ready to cut at the critical junction of the clasp. Some had thought of those talks as a time of hope. The aggressors would agree. When falling from great heights there is always room for hope. And then there is the wide-stretching, granulated, rushing truth of the ground.<br/><br/>Other countries had come. And they had not been welcome, so they had burned on the pyre the warring kin had set around the pristine kingdom. There are aesthetics to victory. Overwhelming technology, dripping in magic should have been enough, but they had the number of men, too. So when war wasn't tactics it became theatrics, and eventually all such shows are about the purveyors and their egos. There would probably be songs about the heroes, but the facts written in history would be that a bigger army ate a smaller one.<br/><br/>Aerill of Baryntin was an angel of a man, outwardly. Young for his riches and power after having navigated through the politics with his beauty and words, and then set to impale all the appropriate chests with a fast, cunning sword. To command the respect of the Baryntin army you could not only have the right scrolls and the right blood - even though it helped - you'd have better proficient in violence, too. So he'd been bred to be a great warrior. His education was long and expensive, but he'd had classmates who didn't rise like him. Aerill became King because he was perfect for it, wise from observing, and cruel from talent. He learned from success as much as failure. He'd built his army until resistance was a formality.<br/><br/>He'd not really meant to massacre the army of Lamenwood. It was a peaceful, small realm in the way of a better opponent. Taxes and tribute and boys for the ranks would have sufficed. But somewhere in the negotiations he'd changed his mind, and flung insults no King could stand for in public. He'd cornered the ruler and his family into conflict. And what pretty fires there had been as a result. Again, hope had been the demise of Lamenwood, and it was now plucked free of its knight because of it.<br/><br/>Aerill sat on the throne that used to belong to Callad of Lamenwood. The beautiful seat had been ripped out, gold roots and alabaster arms, and fanning back and all - set down on the balustrade from which the royal couple would address their people. It was only fair that he redecorate to his liking, now that he had procured these lands through unhinged, unabashed warfare.<br/><br/>He cut a handsome figure too - sitting there for the awe of the people he'd won - with his leathers and the silvers over it. Half a rulers shroud, and half a warriors light armor. Two narrow blades, one on each side. His hair was black, a stormy configuration tamed with a single band to make a dark wave over his head and back. Pretty face, youthful, like death can be ageless, with bloody lips and dark tongue behind wicked teeth. A statue with life and heart and veins. A monster with beauty to lure men and women.<br/><br/>There were spectacles all around the square underneath. Some of the royals had already become opening acts, their heads in baskets now and their wives exhausted, dresses ripped and thighs still trembling from when his ferocious soldiers had visited there for the enjoyment of their people. How bloodthirsty peasants can become if you starve them to pay for your campaigns. Today Aerill gave them a feast of meats, both for their bellies - fowl and pig - and their eyes - women and men, lanced through by bigger men.<br/><br/>Aerill wasn't bored, that would be disrespectful, but he wasn't entirely engaged. Those legendary eyes of his did light when she was brought in. He remembered her clearly when she'd stood up by her father and made her point with cursive words out of her mouth. Steel poetry, and such confidence. Aerill of Baryntin, of Lamenwood, stood as she was brought up the stairs by five strong knights carrying his crest, a wolf in flight, antlers on its head. Did she know he absolutely adored her?<br/><br/>He stole her hands and held her to him to give her a kiss on her cheek. She could resist, the gawking crowd would love it, now that they had been seduced toward debauchery and mayhem.<br/><br/>He was a spoiled creature, and he knew it, but there were so few things he couldn't have, to make him interested. So he'd decided when she'd spoken haughty to him that he wanted to see this expression on her. He wanted to test her resolve and see what the prissy Lamenwood princess felt like around his cock and tongue. He wanted to see her tears and desperation. And he wanted to confuse her with her own ecstasy. With her father on the middle of the scene on the castle square, ready to become much shorter by the arch of an axe, did she feel as formidable today as when she'd insulted him over wine and negotiations?<br/><br/>His eyes were brown rings closing on blue flecks, sapphires in oak, surrounded by lush black lashes. How could he not be evil, when he possessed such beauty. If she did fight, he'd calm her with a few yanks, and put his forehead to hers so those eyes were in a place where she could not avoid staring into them. Not a red thread in sight on the white of his orbs. "What if I said this was all for you, princess?" he asked and stroked her knuckles with his thumbs. "On a whim you inspired me, and thwarted your own kingdom when you gave me new purpose." he spun her by the hold, to upset her dress and have her look at her people, and her father, so that they also could see her. "You ignited my army. You made a pyre of your home, princess."