On the sprawling continent of Maesto, within the Kingdom of Wren, the 'Alabaster City' of Riesling is renowned for its beauty. The streets cobbled with intricately colored tablets and buildings of pristine marble appeared stark in comparison to the towering spires of soft white stone that kept watch over the citizenry.
And beneath the city's majesty, deep within the lower districts, across from perhaps the cheapest maiden's den in the Kingdom of Wren, Solomon slumped in a gutter sucking his loose tooth and ruminating on the decisions that had led him to such a pathetic state of existence.
As merry drunk patrons made their way into the night — and less merry belligerent patrons were tossed into the night — a familiar sense of frustration continued to wash over him; fear and anger mixed, his eagerness to act pushed up against the paralysis of his will. Immobilized by circumstance and uncertain of where he should drag himself next, he chose…to have another drink.
Solomon reached inside his breast pocket, worked his fingers past the loose threads that caught on his unkempt fingernails, and fumbled until the object of his desire fell within his grasp. His hand emerged to reveal an elegant turquoise flask; refined, if poorly maintained.
The flask's delicate design was a stark contrast to his soiled attire; a torn jacket and trousers displayed hints of the regal tailoring he once donned, but the designs were too far buried beneath the wear of time for others to take notice. The crest of house Tyr — an imposing red hawk, wings spread before an emblazoned sun — had been hastily removed from his shoulder with the work of a pocket knife. His once elegant garb was now caked over with the musk and grime of a man who no longer saw sense in bathing.
The flask Solomon held in his hand was a remnant of a different time, a time when he had ambition, a time when there was the promise of a bright future. He allowed his eyes to linger on the flask's intricate design — the marbled patterns swirled like sea foam, the edges plated with an elegant golden finish, it always had a way of absorbing his gaze. It was the last memento of his previous life, a gift given him by his mother on the night his engagement was announced. 'To take the edge off her' she had said.
He closed his eyes and lifted the flask, inhaling the liquid calm, savoring each swig of shine as it passed thro—
"I once held sway in the King's court, you know." A low voice spoke up from beside him, just loud enough for his ear's to catch the words.
"Is that so?" Solomon replied as he finished his taste, retraining his eyes on the flask as he lowered it from his mouth.
Solomon had not heard the bum sneak up on him, but he figured he was quite drunk at the moment and he had grown used to the delusions of vagrants. To his great displeasure he already had many run-ins with some of the preeminent men of the continent. A month prior he had a lively conversation with the 'true' King of Keystone who, after being chased by a local street merchant for stealing a grain pouch, stumbled and broke his jaw on the cobblestone. As far as Solomon could tell he was already missing four fingers, but the guards took a fifth for good measure then left him to recover in a ditch. It seemed unlikely he would be returning to his throne.
In the black canals of Riesling there was no shortage of forgotten heros or forlorn nobles amongst the dregs, but Solomon supposed it was normal to dream of a grand life for one's self.
Solomon, however, was a man of blood. Pure. Thoroughbred. No slum maiden birthed him in a back alley, he did not bring his right to court as a bastard. His mother was the highest pedigree. The second daughter of a reputable family, she was good stock — he was good stock. So why was it th—
"It was quite intimidating in the beginning"
Solomon's rumination was once again interrupted by the man's hushed voice, "I did not come from a noble home, I was raised in a place such as this."
Solomon clenched his jaw. If he had a blade he'd thrust it and be on his way, but with nowhere to go, and no steel to rend, doing much of anything seemed rather…pointless. So, instead, he gritted his teeth and chose…to have another drink.
Spirits willing the wretch would say his piece and be on his way, the deluded ones always seemed to bring the most trouble. Solomon lifted the adorned flask to his lips, and once more he let the sensation of the shine burn th—
"I had no idea at the time, I was only a sheep who had wandered in amongst wolves", the man's voice rose and Solomon froze with the flask still on his lips. He recognized that voice.
"I suppose I share some blame for my naivety." The man's voice had grown from a whisper to a growl, as a visceral cadence began to envelope his speech.
Solomon felt a terror well up inside him, a surreal mixture of emotions you only experience when the moment you have dreaded for years comes to fruition. A complex combination of horror and relief washed over him as he lost control of his own body; his heart spiked into his throat, the blood drained from his face, his fingers began to tremble. He had prepared himself for this for years, and yet in this moment he was speechless….so he took another drink.
Then, Solomon reached deep within himself, grasping for the one shred of courage, the one shred of dignity that remained inside of him. Slowly, he lifted his brow to meet the gaze of a dead man, but he was not met by the wraith's eyes. Instead, he found the wraith staring off ahead, his visage obscured by the hood of his cloak; tattered but well kept, this man was no vagrant.
"I never had brothers, I was raised in the slums you know." The wraith tilted his head back, as if to look longingly at the tips of the spires invisible to those mired in the canals of Riesling. "I found brothers in the court, my first true family."
Solomon's courage wained at the verbal daggers, his eyes retreating once more to the flask. Then he felt….frustration? Solomon took a deep breath to calm his heart and returned his gaze to the wraith beside him.
"W-we were never brothers, Rahm" Solomon found his voice through the tremors. "You were a stray mutt, an adopted pet"
Rahm's stare remained unchanged, locked onto that same strange point far off in the distance as he began to speak "We share the same blo—"
"The blood of awhore" Solomon found his feet, the rage that had been bubbling to the surface finally finding its intended target. "You were the son of a whore, Rahm. It was always my right as the true heir to become the patriarch"
It felt good to finally release his anger, Solomon no longer feared the creature standing before him. "You were a shiny object that caught too much light, they were never going to let you take the hou.."
"I did not take anything!" Rahm's head whipped toward Solomon with such ferocity that he didn't even have time to be startled. For what Rahm had become, he did not appear all that different than he had 16 years ago. A harsh complexion with ice blue skin that appeared cold to the touch, hair that had shifted from jet black to stone white, and a deep darkness in his eyes that seemed to emanate through Solomon's soul.
He froze, his body locked in fear. "If you had just killed me, I wouldn't be here" Rahm crept ever closer, his eyes now inches from Solomon's. "Give me your hand, brother"
Solomon gazed into his brother's eyes as an inky black dispersion of Ichor washed over them. Rahm's eyes no longer resembled that of a human, they became two pitch black orbs that seem to pierce Solomon's soul to its very core. Then…he began to raise his arm.
Solomon struggled against himself, willing his body to do as he commanded with everything in his being, but his arm continued to rise. He felt the beast before him take his forearm in his hand and squee—
Pain….pain like Solomon had never experienced before. His body felt as though he was burning from the inside out, his blood boiled in his veins, his vision faded as a searing light consumed his eyes, every nerve ending in his body cried out for death, but he did not die.
He listened to his own cries, smelled the scent of his own burning flesh, his limbs going limp as his body collapsed to the ground and his breath stopped, and th—
Rahm kneeled down by the corpse of his brother, eye sockets charred black and viscera where his eyes should be, Rahm once again felt nothing despite his emotions flaring during their conversation. That was unusual, he wondered if it might be a sign the spirits were easing their binding, he had been nearly certain Solomon was the last of house Tyr, but he did not feel the spirits loosening their grip.
'There must be another' Rahm acknowledged as he rose to his feet, the impulse to seek someone was too strong for it to be anything else. All the members he knew from house Tyr were dead and, to his knowledge, there was no record of anyone else inheriting the family name. 'A bastard?' He thought to himself, as he picked up the ornate turquoise flask from the ground…he chose to have a drink.