Date: February 10, 1999
Place: Great Hall - Basilica - Civitas Dei
Cast: Arahael, Cassius (Trykolides), Craft, Drusus (@emits), Ianthe (@emits), Lucian (Oriane), Megeara, Tros, Xanthiel (I)
Scene: Led by Xanthiel Augustin, a legion of the Praetorian Guard declares martial law in Civitas Dei, and fighting breaks out in the halls of the Aegis -- with tragic results.

The great halls of the main basilica in Civitas Dei, where the Aegis convenes regularly, have rarely heard such a cacophony as what transpires today. The meeting that started this morning went on most of the day with only a brief break for meal-time, and has continued well into the evening. Aegians sit arrayed in a semi-circle, listening to the discourse of the one who currently holds the floor. It is Cassius Augustin, his normally-reserved countenance turned florid with the passion of his words. Though he stands opposite Arahael of House Jove, he speaks to all those gathered. "You have seen the evidence. You have heard my testimony. You know the facts. Not only is Lucian Deiepetes unfit to rule, but he is a murderer and a conspirator besides. He must be removed, so that we can place someone on the throne who will bring reason and order back to this splintered Empyre!"

Arahael frowns. Beleaguered, and with little support, the young Deus of House Jove still stands opposite of Cassius Augustin. "Your words, Deus, serve only to further fracture our people. The Varati hold the knife to our throat in a war that we were never ready to fight, and rather than bring strength and union to the Empyre, you insisted on following this course." He turns from Cassius to the encircled Aegians. "When has the Emperor been able to rule, when we all know that the true power has lain with this splintered body? What proof has Augustin shown of murder that proves, beyond all doubt, what he says?" His arms and wings spread wide, "And, in this darkest hour, how does this bickering serve the Empyre? How does shattering the one who leads us bring our people together against the Varati?"

Seated partially away from the main mass of Aegians, and surrounded by his own guards, sits the object of such heated debate -- the 'boy' Emperor himself. Lucian listens as he had most of this day, saying nothing but letting his face express everything. Haggard and frustrated, his knuckles whiten as he grips the arms of his chair tighter.

For the length of the long day of discussion, Megeara has remained stiffly aloof, her expression distant and rarely giving reaction to the long monologues which have gone on around her. Seated in the chair previously favored by the Princeps, she ignores the occasional rude stares and the whispered comments of the Aegians who wonder at her presumption. For now, the chilliness of eyes turned dark, cloudy blue flicker between her uncle and her husband, offering no visible support to either line of argument. Occasionally, her gaze drifts toward Lucian, and freezes before slowly moving on.

Turning to address Arahael directly, Cassius gestures to the subject of the debate. It is clear to many that the Augustin patriarch has never liked the Emperor, and he was one of those most opposed to Lucian ever ascending the throne. "He is a child!" he insists. "He is a boy raised outside of our culture, and ignorant of its ways -- and have you not forgotten the time he spent as a slave to the Varati? Shall I recite his other transgressions, up to and including his pre-meditated plans to murder our former Emperor, either out of ambition or the overzealousness of youth? The very poison used to strike Justinius down was found in his chambers! Are we to overlook that for the sake of keeping up this sham of unity?" He shakes his head slowly, and his voice lowers to a more moderate level. "The Aegis cannot guide the Empyre alone. We need a ruler worthy of that responsibility, and this boy, this child, is not that individual."

Tros' eyebrows spock upwards at the latest. He has been standing in the near vicinity of Megeara, being the former Princeps' assistant. Every word that has left the lips of today's speakers have intrigued him, eyes dancing to watch expressions.

Arahael's pinions lower as his arms return to his side, "Need I remind this august body of the identity of our former Emperor? Are there any here who would claim to love the memory of Justinius more than I? Deus of my House, father to my mother." The current Deus Jove points to an Aegian with a long, sallow face. "Cestus, would you?" Arahael does not wait for an answer, but turns to another Aegian, calling him by name and asking him the same question. And again, and again. "None of this body could truly claim to have more call for justice, for revenge, than I. Here I stand, though, supporting our Emperor now." His face hardens, each word spoken clearly, "If an assassin could kill our Princeps, one could plant poison in the Emperor's rooms. This is not the time for us to fracture what little remains of our government. To do this now would remove what faith our people have, what remains in those who lead them."

A year ago, Cassius' words would have had Lucian out of his chair shouting his defiance back at the older man. This day, though his wings flex and tense angrily -- almost as if he wanted to leap out of his chair -- he instead stays silent, seething in his anger at the accusations.

A rustle of agreement echoes up from the seats surrounding Megeara in response to Cassius' words. Previously led by Lysander, this grouping of Aegians have always been known for their conservative beliefs. Now, bereft of the controlling hand of the Princeps, much of the subtlety of their positioning has been lost. These men, well aware of the growing signs of discontent in the populace, seek someone to place the blame of the failed war upon, and the young Emperor is an all-too-convenient target. For her part, the Dea Jove remains silent and watchful. Slightly narrowed eyes take in the form of Arahael as he gives response, but then flicker away to focus on some distant point before he might take note of it.

Suddenly, there is a quick rapping on the door to the chambers. Before it can get answered, however, the doors are flung open by the knocker, who then strides quickly into the room. Fully armored, with a loaded crossbow at his side, Praefect Xanthiel Augustin has that semi-breathless look to him that speaks of a quick flight from the building in which he had set up his command center to the meeting, and his seeming haste is reinforced by the little more than a fast glance around the room before he speaks. "Emperor, Aegis, I apologize for the interruption of this important meeting. There is urgent news pertaining to the threat of a possible coup attempt that cannot afford to wait until the end, however, that you all will wish to know. May I speak, please?" He shifts slightly from foot to foot as if embarrassed, but his gaze sweeps the room once more without wavering.

Cassius makes a deprecating sound at Arahael's mention of 'faith.' "And you would rather we put our faith in an untried youth? He does not know the first thing about running an Empyre, and he has consistently resisted advice given by members of the Aegis itself. By all the lares, he wants to free the slaves, regardless of the economic disaster it would pose to our nation--" He suddenly cuts off as the doors burst open and turns to face the intruders with a ruffled mantling of his wings. His expression shows no pleasure at the sight of his own brother, and he speaks to the Praefect formally. "Speak your piece." Some of the other Aegians might bristle at the Augustin patriarch's blithe assumption of authority, but most are too distracted by the interruption to take heed.

The Schola who stand near Lucian, along with those scattered throughout the chamber, all suddenly stand a little straighter, look about them a bit more alertly. Those nearest the door start, hands on weapons as the doors burst open, but relax once the Praefect enters.

Arahael nods in agreement with Cassius for this one thing as the Deus Augustin speaks to the Praefect. "Speak," he echoes.

Lucian's gaze flashes toward the door, and though his eyes widen, for a brief moment, there's a flicker of his old amusement as Xanthiel bursts into the place. To no one in particular and likely not heard by many, he comments out loud, "Oh, this should be interesting." Leaning an elbow on the arm of his chair, he turns to watch Cassius' expression.

Megeara shifts slightly in her seat at the interruption. A stiff movement given her previous stillness. Golden brows draw close in a frown at recognition of her uncle and then furrow further upon catching Lucian's words.

Raising his left hand into the air, Xanthiel straightens, a faint smile touching the outside of his lips. "This meeting is now academic, Civitas Dei is under martial law." A full Acies of the best of Xanthiel's elite troops begin to flow into the room from the open doors, all armed with crossbows in addition to their normal weaponry. Each Praetorian takes a bead on his pre- assigned target as soon as he is in the room, even as the Praefect's own weapon snaps up from his hip to his right hand, pointing at the heart of his own brother and Patriarch. "As of this moment, I am in command of the city, and demand the immediate surrender of all those allied with the treasonous late-Princeps Lysander. Do not make this cost any more lives than it already has."

"Do you rave?!?" Arahael's cry rings out over the sound of footsteps and shouts of outrage. "Praefect, you place the knife in the heart of the Empyre you serve -- reconsider your actions while you still may."

The Jovian Aegian's voice is just loud enough to rise over the other exclamations of shock -- some fear, some are angry, some merely cry out from the surprise of them. Two low-ranking counselors try to slip out.

Cassius' gaze slides to the doors, where the Praetorian Guard under his brother's command comes filing in. His ice-blue eyes dart rapidly back and forth, and his wings flutter in agitation, but otherwise he is still, poised -- even if he trembles beneath the facade with the shock and outrage of it all. At last, his stare, frosty and lethal, settles on Xanthiel. Unlike Arahael, he does not shout. His voice is pitched low and razor-edged with leashed fury. "You are consigning the Empyre as we know it to a swift death, brother. Cease this madness at once."

The din from the angry cries of the Aegians drowns out Lucian's own shout of surprise. Rising instantly from his seat, white wings snap out and then closed as he gapes at the Augustin Praefect. Whatever he says is lost in the cacophony but his expression is obviously shocked as his eyes roam the room for the other reactions.

Tightening her grip on the arms of her seat, Megeara half-rises in shock at Xanthiel's proclamation. Rises, that is, until one of those weapons turns to pinpoint upon her own personage. With a near-squeaked "Treasonous?!" she lowers herself once more into the chair. All about her, the Aegians who had previously formed a chorus of agreement with Cassius fall into various states of reaction. Some cry out in fear, others in anger. Some merely do their best to hide behind the wings of those before them -- all adding to the general chaos of the room.

The Schola, for their part, are impotent. What number haven't already fallen in with the Praefect find those they are sworn to guard under point of crossbow. Weapons are drawn, the clatter of crossbows raised and the hiss of swords leaving scabbards. But those who appear displeased with the actions Xanthiel and his minions make no threat... for it would cost them the lives of the Aegis.

"Nay, Deus Arahael, I do not rave." Calm and clear, Xanthiel's voice cuts across the din that his announcement has created like a knife. "The Praetorian Guard serves the Empyre, not just the Aegis, and we will not allow pride amongst our leaders to bring ruin to the people. It is our job to prevent unnecessary bloodshed, and none can honestly say that this war is necessary or unpreventable. We have taken steps to bring an end to it, and this is the last of them, to purge the Empyre of the core of corruption that brought about it. Cassie, brother, you and those with you are the madness."

"You are as ignorant as you are brash, brother," Cassius grinds out through clenched teeth. "I myself have opted for peace with the Varati -- for our Empyre is crumbling under their onslaught. But you are destroying our very government and the only way of life we have known for centuries! Do not do this. You will bring about the fall of the Empyre more surely than ten thousand Varati armies ever could." His words are low, hissed, and do not carry much beyond Xanthiel's ears -- to be sure, many of the Aegians present are too preoccupied with their own seemingly-imminent deaths to care much what the Augustin patriarch is saying.

A faint, foul odor arises -- the odor of old men with old bladders who are scared for their very lives, much less their personal power. It comes with the sour, coppery smell of death slowly seeping in through the newly-opened doors to the outer chambers.

Brow furrowed, Lucian remains standing but seems less agitated than when the Praetorians first burst into the room. Though his expression remains serious, there's a faint flicker of a bemused expression on his face, to see his accusers now at the end of someone else's weapon-sights. Crossing his arms over his chest, he continues to look between Cassius, Arahael, and now Xanthiel. The other Aegians might as well not exist.

Arahael steps forward, for Cassius had been nearer the door than he, until he stands beside the Augustin Deus. "This path serves no better than your brother's, Praefect," Arahael states. "You introduce chaos to a people already tasting despair." The Jovian's right arm hovers about his side, hungry for the weapon that isn't there. "This too, will break them -- and give us to the Khalid Atar. I know your reason to hate him, I know her name. This is not worth it."

Arahael's utterance of "him" is accompanied by a tilt of his head toward Cassius... it is not Khalid of whom he speaks.

Listening to Arahael speak, Lucian takes on a knowing expression and shoots a glare at Cassius before nodding in agreement with the Jovian Aegian.

Cassius' eyes flash over to Arahael, then back to Xanthiel. His wings give an angry shake; an anger echoed in his taut, tense stance. "Is this personal?" he asks incredulously. "You would bring about the fall of our Empyre because of vengeance?" His icy blue eyes are riveted on Xanthiel now.

Tros takes a few careful steps forward from his position behind Megeara. The whole scenario has left the redheaded Empyrean concerned for the welfare of those he knows. Deus Lysander's death was enough; he doesn't wish to see more.

Somewhere in the back of the great meeting hall, one particularly terrified Aegian begins to sidle toward the doors, his sandals softly scuffing the floor, wings giving a whispered rustle. He, for one, doesn't care what the reasons are -- all he knows is that there are a large amount of crossbows in the room.

The other Aegians may cease to exist in Lucian's eyes, but they are still all present, much to their personal dismay. A continuous low murmur of panic and anger rumbles in the background of the chamber. More than one of these men have done their own service in the Praetorian Guard, and their voices are the most belligerent, mouthing cries of "Treason," and "Dishonor," in the direction of those who hold weapons against them. As Arahael steps forward, Megeara rises once again, turning a disdainfully challenging look toward the young guardsman who dares to hold a crossbow aimed toward her heart. She flicks a glance toward Tros briefly, but then returns her attention forward.

Xanthiel's faint smile widens slightly, a dryly amused one at the attempts to dissuade him. "I believe you all misunderstand the situation. This is not just me, one Praefect and his troops, who demands this. Everyone from Tribunes to commoners, Praefects and artisans, the Empyre demands this. The Khalid Atar is no longer a threat -- our negotiations with him were successful."

Xanthiel's eyes flash in sudden anger, both to Arahael and to Cassius. "Nay, if you think this to be a personal crusade, you are sadly mistaken, and as long as you continue to think it such, you show how truly ignorant you are of the Empyre outside the Aegis."

One of the Praetorians moves to intercept the Aegian moving towards the door. Crossbow lifted so that there is no doubt that it is aimed at the man in question, the piercing gaze gives no doubt that another step towards the door will result in consequences... most unfortunate... All those accompanying Xanthiel are people who have seen action before, are some of the best out there, no trigger-happy youths or ones that look like they may hesitate if action is needed.

Cassius' lips curl back in an angry sneer. "You seek to start a revolution, brother? Well, then, congratulations." He gestures outward, toward the surrounding guardsmen. "The seeds of revolt have been sown. You will bring us strife, civil war, and death -- and this time it will be Empyrean against Empyrean. I hope you are proud, Xanthiel. I hope this is what you wanted. When scholars look back on this time of bloodshed and misery, they will have you to thank."

That lone Aegian who had sought escape now stumbles to a halt, lifting widened, saucer-like eyes to that crossbow so prominently pointed at him. "P--please," he stammers out. "I have a wife, children..."

A group of aides considers the guards at the door. Clearly they are thinking "if we all run at once, they can't shoot us all down." But none of them seems to be willing to be the one who is shot while the others gain their freedom. And so none of them move except to flutter their ruffled wings in unhappy, terrified agitation.

Arahael's eyes widen. Their negotiations were successful? "Thinking that you act from personal vengeance is better than the alternative. With your mind clouded, you could be forgiven." He shakes his head, "Instead, in your hubris, you've betrayed a tradition that has lived unbroken from the time of the Kronian."

"The blood of the Empyre is on your sword, Praefect. Yours and those who schemed with you." Arahael steps away from Cassius' side, his eyes taking in the crossbows which follow his movements.

More cries of surprise, some angry, some... intrigued. "Negotiations?" One Aegian, his purple striped-toga further edged with gold, stands up. "What negotiations?"

The mention of the Praetorian Guard conducting their own peace negotiations secret from the Aegis and Emperor does cause Lucian's bemused expression to change to one of anger and frustration, "Has everyone gone mad??"

Xanthiel is long used to Cassius twisting the situation to false accusations, and seems no more affected by these than he would if told that it was raining outside. "I have no wish for more bloodshed, Cassie -- it is only if you refuse to accept the reality of the situation that such will happen." He turns, next, to address Arahael. "And betrayed a tradition that has lived unbroken from the time of the Kronian, Deus? You seem to think that I am making myself the Emperor. I am not. Lucian is, and will continue to be, doing a good job in that position."

"Only the Aegis can oversee negotiations!" Cassius suddenly thunders to the throng. "That is how it has always been! The Praetorian Guard is not the Empyre's sole authority, though clearly their hubris overwhelms them!" He turns to Xanthiel now, pitching his voice lower. "Think, brother. You will leave us leader-less and splintered. Torn asunder from within. We must be united in this, or the Empyre is truly lost. Do not continue with this foolish scheme!"

Leather creaks as the Schola remaining loyal to the Aegis hold their desperate position. Only the Emperor has more than one guard near him who does not stand with the rebel Praefect, and even those few seems small to the many score which hold weapon upon the Aegis.

Arahael moves until he stands beside one of the younger Schola who remain loyal to the Aegis. The young guard is almost trembling, his crossbow out and held in frightened defiance against three of Xanthiel's men, his sword still at his side.

More bootsteps scuttering across the floor just outside the conference chambers echo through the hallways and rooms. The sounds of flapping chlamydes join the bootsteps as the figures grow closer. Tribune Astorius and his four hand-picked escorts enter the room unopposed. Craft's gaze sweeps across the members of the gathered factions: Praetorian, Schola, Aegis, Emperor. He remains silent for a while, simply overlooking the situation.

Unfolding his arms from across his chest, Lucian holds out his hands as a faint breeze begins blowing through the chamber as a subtle, or not-so-subtle reminder, "Keep your tempers about you, people. Now is not the time for more bloodshed." The young, boyish Emperor shoots a look at both Cassius and Xanthiel as he takes a half a step forward.

Having gained her feet with no untoward incidents, Megeara begins a slow movement forward, eyes fixed on the young guardsman who holds his crossbow upon her. Only a few steps into it, he speaks in harsh undertones, "Return to your seat, Dea. I have no wish to harm you." The steadiness of his hand on the weapon belies the faint hesitation in his voice.

For the first time in many hours, Megeara speaks, and it is with low scorn, "I wish to stand beside my husband. Do you truly fear a woman in a room full of your compatriots in treason?"

Though his grip tightens and his jaw flexes, the member of Xanthiel's troop lowers his bow just enough to allow Megeara passage to Arahael's side. There she stands, arms crossed and wings tightly held to herself. Waiting.

One elderly Aegian, formerly a member of the Praetorian Guard, and well-respected by many of its members even after he joined the ranks of the Aegis, rises slowly from his seat. "I will never bend knee to the Varati," he asserts firmly in his low, gravelly tone. "I'll die first. I'll not stand by and see the Empyre fold. Lay down your arms. Your fight is not with us, but with those barbarians from the north."

Arahael turns to Megeara and, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder, speaks in a low tone. His eyes, however, look toward the motion of the elderly Aegian.

Xanthiel tosses his head back, giving a shrug of his shoulders before stating matter-of-factly. "It is done, deal with it." His left hand, which had been raised this entire time, falls, before going out to steady his weapon.. "Arrest everyone but the Emperor -- he can decide who retains their rank and position and who does not once the tension and weapons are gone." The Praetorians begin to walk toward their charges, crossbows ever at the ready.

"No!" The word is roared from that ex-Praetor as his hand darts for a small pugio strapped at his belt. Once a Praetor, always a Praetor, and this one seems determined to go down fighting, despite his age.

"Praefect Augustin," Craft's voice asserts, "might I say one thing to respected Aegian Trykolides?" The Tribune seems to be addressing the ex-Praetor.

Craft's voice thunders to any who would harm him, "HOLD!" It is enough to quell any ambitious, blood-thirsty Praetor who may wish to do the Aegian harm... or should be.

Praetorians pause, as does Xanthiel, at Craft's request. "But of course, Tribune." As much as he doubts it will work, an attempt at reason is worth the minor shot.

Chin set at a determined angle, Megeara shoots a glance upward to her husband. Clearly, his whispered words do not sit well with her, and yet she obeys. Disgust and malice drip from the look she turns upon her uncle, Xanthiel, and then she turns to present her back to the tense group hovering near the entrance. Slowly, her steps take her in the direction of the Emperor and his closely-stationed guards, every footfall a challenge to those holding weapons to bear.

Lucian's brow furrows even deeper as he's ignored... as usual. Gritting his teeth, he clenches both hands into fists and sends a gust of air moving through the room to remind people of his presence. Seeing a figure moving, his eyes snap towards Megeara. Watching her for a second, his shoulders relax and he dismisses her to watch Cassius and Xanthiel again.

"Brother..." The Tribune says to Aegian Trykolides, his eyes sharp and yet sympathetic, "What is the duty of a Praetor to his Empyre, for once we are of the Guard, we are always of the Guard. Our duty is to protect the Empyre from all who would oppose it. This war is lost. To continue it further would be to send the sons and daughters of the Empyre to worthless deaths. You took the oath, you remember the Pillars, I know it. We are devoted to the continuity of the Empyre. We are now called to protect the Empyre again, but this time to save it from itself..."

One ex-aide, attempts to make his way around the chamber in Lucian's general direction. That would be Tros. Hopefully, for his sake, he will not be cut down.

There's an audible snort from Arahael, "The words of rationalization sound no sweeter from you than they did from the Praefect."

Craft says "You of all of the gathered members should be able to see the folly in this war. No one wishes to bend to the Varati, it hurts us all... but the Empyre will continue. We will rebuild our cities, the Guard will lick its wounds, and grow stronger so that the next time this occurs, it will not be a slaughter, and that is what it has been." His gaze moves to Arahael. Let him retort like a child whose toys are being taken from him.

Trykolides, that aged, ex-Praetor, is not in the mood to listen to reason. "Don't preach to me, boy," he growls out. "I've fought skirmishes with the Varati for years. My brothers bled and died for this Empyre before you could fly. Don't tell me what patriotism means -- I know! No retreat, no surrender -- I'll never bow to that creature they call a king!" And with that, outraged by the insurrection, and in no mood to heed the latest Tribune's words, he attacks. Despite his seventy-some years, he whips that pugio from his belt with the speed of one much younger, and with a furious bellow, he snaps it toward Craft, his own life be damned.

Seeing the old man, one so vehemently against him and for the war, leap forward to attack and surely die, Lucian steps forward again, shouting an angry, frustrated, "NO! You're all mad!"

As the blade flies, Arahael turns and shouts over his shoulder to Megeara. "Go! NOW!" The Aegian's wings open wide in an attempt to distract those who might fire their bolts at his wife, even as he reaches for the sheathed sword of the young Schola beside him.

Cassius' attention had been on Xanthiel, and so he had missed the sudden flurry of activity and the sight of that blade flying toward Craft. Only now does he realize what is happening, and his own wings flare out in a defensive motion. He is no soldier though, and not accustomed to battle, and so he can only watch in shocked surprise, stumbling back a few paces and ignorant of any bolts that might be loosed by over-eager guardsmen.

So near to the relative safety of the Emperor's men, Megeara pauses in surprise at the shouts behind her. She whirls, and her eyes widen with fright -- the image of her husband reaching for a weapon while so many barbed arrows are focused upon him etched upon her irises. "Arahael, NO!!" Even as she cries out, the flaring of so many wings blocks her view and sends her stumbling backward, her own pinions flexing to help her regain balance.

A moment of pain flickers across the face of the Tribune as he moves to the side quickly, the dagger burying itself in Craft's shoulder greave. Blood trickles from the wound, but the Tribune does not defend himself.

Xanthiel spins to the side, knowing that Cassius is covered by more than just him, and snaps a shot out of his weapon. An expert archer, the steel bolt hums with deadly speed through the air on it's path towards the upper thigh of Trykolides. Not waiting to see if the shot actually connects, he darts back behind the front ranks of the other Praetorians with him, ducking to his knees to begin the process of reloading. "Praetorians!" His voice cuts across the room, "Remember your orders!"

"You'll have to kill me," Trykolides asserts as his ivory wings unfurl, reminiscent of their former glory. "I won't surrender to you, or anyone." Lifting his voice, he calls out to his brethren. "Who here is loyal to the Empyre? Truly loyal? Will you let these cowards and children decide our fates for us? Or will you stand united, in the end? S--" His speech is cut off abruptly as Xanthiel's bolt finds its mark, and he stumbles, crying out in pain, hands flying to the scarlet blossoming from his upper thigh. "Damn you," he chokes out as he's robbed of both choice and dignity.

Cassius may be a patriot, and may once have taken up Trykolides' cry. But he's not eager to face the grey-winged Aidoneus yet, and so he remains silent, trembling, and watches with widened blue eyes. "It's all come to this," he murmurs to himself.

The storm breaks, and as a member of the Aegis is fired upon, the remaining Schola react as they have been trained to when their charges are threatened. A crossbow fires, errant and wild, followed by two more which seek the front line of the Praetors. Two Schola move -- heedless of the crossbows of the praetorians -- to stand before Trykolides, and others move towards the more exposed Aegians.

Trykolides presses at the wound with one hand while he lifts furious eyes toward Xanthiel, and perhaps his bravado has had some effect, for there are more rumblings among others in the Aegis, and among those in the Praetorian Guard who are still loyal to their government. From around the hall are other cries, "The Empyre will never surrender!" which are repeated with more zeal once the Schola make their move.

As Cassius falls backwards, Arahael moves forward. The Deus Jove was once of the Praetorian guard, and the sword sits well in his right hand. "Will you kill us all," he asks, his grey eyes darkening, "and birth your new Empyre in our blood?"

Pressed back to the protected spot by the Emperor's side, Megeara strains to catch sight of the activity at the crux of the room, blue-green eyes scanning to find a glint of silvery hair in the confusion. The words which are muttered under her breath can only be heard by the one at her side, and the lines of her face are laid in bitter anger.

Craft's gaze flicks from the fallen form of the aged to the younger members of the Schola. The words of Arahael ring through his ears, as do the sharp *twangs* of crossbow bolts being loosed. A moment of irritation passes through him: who let them keep their weapons?

The other Praetorians are no more idle or slow to react than their leader. Those Schola that only move to guard Aegians with their bodies are ignored, as much as anyone is, but those that attack are retaliated against. And unlike the Aegians, those members of the Schola are not given the second chances. Bolts headed in their direction seek out the life of their targets. In the meantime, Xanthiel's voice growls out lowly in response to Arahael. "If I wanted to do that, he would have been shot in the throat and not the leg. Put your weapons away, and it will be over."

Pain, anger and frustration cross Lucian's face as he glances towards Megeara in his 'protected' corner now. Reaching out, he puts a comforting hand on the young Dea's shoulder. At least he hopes it's comforting. As she speaks, though, his eyes widen and he stares at the woman.

As he seems to have suddenly become the 'ringleader,' Trykolides musters what strength and endurance he has. His right leg is one mess of blood where the bolt protrudes out of it, but he's a tough old ex-Praetor, and he won't be quieted so easily. "Show these children what we stand for! The would turn on their own and they call themselves Empyreans? They would bring civil war down on us all, and insist that we become subservient to those barbarians? Never!" His voice is weakened and rasping from pain, but there is a murderous glint in his eyes as he seeks out Xanthiel in the confusion.

Cassius has no wish to make himself such a prime target. Political debates are one thing, but battle is entirely different. With his wings partially unfolded to help ward off any stray bolts, the Augustin patriarch retreats further from the fighting, as do some of his fellow colleagues. There's a small knot of them huddled in one corner, watching in horror as others of their number are cut down.

The words of Aegian Trykolides ring true to the Schola, and other crossbows sing out as they watch two of their fellows fall -- Praetorian bolts embedded in neck and chest. The coppery smell of blood pervades the thick atmosphere of the room, the odor striking some primal chord of fight and fear.

Pulling his eyes off of the Jove at his side, Lucian bellows in anger and horror as he watches blood begin to flow down the isles of the Aegian Hall, "ENOUGH!" A furious wind begins to whip through the upper levels of the room as he steps forward, "ENOUGH OF THIS!"

Tros' eyes go wide as Lucian steps forward, concern lighting in them. He has been slowly working his way around the chamber to be by the boy. Should anyone try to harm the Deus, he will attempt to deflect such with his own body. 'Course, what are the odds such might happen?

Roused to patriotic duty by Trykolides words, several of the Schola begin an advancement toward those Praetorians stationed across the room from Lucian. Firmly standing their ground, these begin an orderly release of their crossbow bolts. Unfortunately, the Emperor's last-minute display of his power has an unplanned effect. As he rises to make himself heard, an errant gust of the very wind he controls captures one arrow and sends it singing toward him. As Megeara watches in amazement, the bolt catches the young ruler high in his left shoulder and sends him crashing into her. Both tumble to the floor in a confusion of feathers and the whirled papers which further cloud vision.

Lucian's bellow is cut short by a cry of pain as he goes crashing to the floor in a flurry of wings between both him and Megeara. Crimson begins to flow thick on his white, gold-trimmed chiton. Those close enough to see can see the pain send a haze through his brilliant blue eyes.

Craft's gaze flicks about the room, mentally cursing the Aegis and its inability to listen to reason. Praetorians fire on Schola, but by some act of chance, the Praetorians are suddenly labeled bad guys as the bolt finds its way into Lucian. Wonderful. The Tribune continues to watch, glaring about. "CEASE FIRE, ALL OF YOU. THE EMPEROR IS DOWN."

One more outcry is not enough to stem this tide. Trykolides is caught in the midst of patriotic fervor, despite his wound, and he keeps urging the crowd on. "We will not be defeated! We will not be turned out of our positions, our very home, by these cowards in the Guard!" He staggers forward, barely kept upright, and using his broad, ivory wings for balance as he teeters. He seems intent on reaching Xanthiel in the continuing struggle, and even a few weapon-less Aegians join in the fray, attempting to disarm their 'captors' -- most with tragic results.

A wild crossbow bolt from behind has embedded itself in the still-spread span of Arahael's wings, the point emerging bloody from the white of his flight feathers. He hears the commotion behind him, but it is Craft's shout that turns his head to the confused mass of people where Lucian and Megeara once stood. An inchoate shout comes from his mouth, and Arahael turns his back on Xanthiel and Craft to begin to wade towards the Emperor's chair, the sword held dangerously in his hand.

Oblivious to anything else in the room, Megeara manages to pull herself out from beneath the fallen Emperor. As the blood pumps from him, the winds he has released spin further out of control, adding yet another level of chaos to the mix. A pale face can be glimpsed as she looks back over her shoulder, and then Megeara kneels at Lucian's side. Her outspread wings block any view, but her stance is that of one leaning over the man, trying to staunch the flow from his wound.

Some sort of gut-wrenching gurgling suddenly expels itself from the elder Ex-Praetor-turned-Aegian, a sharp sort of shriek as a sudden explosion of pain tears into his body and exits it form his chest. Blood spills from the wound as his chest opens up, producing the blade of a gladius which then retreats back into the flesh it was birthed from, the pristine red robes stained purple-red with the fresh blood. Craft's movement is uninhibited as he withdraws the sword, his face a mask of rage as he steps over the body as his lungs, severed, torn, pierced, fight for something destined to be torn from him. "May you find rest, then, brother. From the flames, the Empyre must rise once more." He heads towards the Emperor, now that his biggest hindrance has been dispatched. Eyes on Arahael warily, the Tribune moves closer to assist the wounded youth.

The fighting is quick and furious. The Praetorians easily outnumber the Schola two to one, and were prepared for this, but the very orders given to keep it from falling to a wholesale slaughter puts them in a position of having to react to the Schola's movements. The Schola formation that sprang up is cut down by a thick flight of bolts, but even that display does not keep individuals from continuing their attempt at resistance. There are Aegians moaning on the ground with bolts in their legs, there are Schola and Praetorians both dying on the ground. There is little doubt that the Praetorians are winning, but fanatics such as Trykolides cannot be reasoned with.

Face twisted in pain, Lucian lays crumpled on the floor, reaching a hand towards the bolt sticking out of his shoulder and adding the flow of more blood to the room. Grimacing with the agony of the wound, he's unable to stop his winds, whipping them through the room in a building frenzy. Blue eyes turn towards Megeara as she leans over and blocks the view.

"Stop..." There's a voice, coming from some corner of the great hall. Barely heard or heeded amid the shouts, pained cries, and frenzy of those out-of-control winds. "Stop!" There it is again, a little louder. Chances are, no one heard it that time, either, or if they did, they didn't listen. And yet, Cassius cannot stand idly by and do nothing as Aegis and Praetorian alike tear into one another. He tries a third and last time, roaring loudly, "STOP!!"

The wound in Lucian's shoulder must be grave for his body twists in pain as a strangled and weakening voice gurgles cries of pain that almost become whimpers. Beneath the young man, this boy Emperor, white wings begin to grow stained red from the blood flowing from his shoulder. A hand covered in blood reaches up to Megeara's shoulder, grabbing hold of her chimere as she apparently tries to staunch the flow of life from him.

Trykolides, after long and faithful service first to the Guard, then to the Aegis, is cut down by a member of the very unit he once led. He falls to the polished, tiled floor, and his life's blood seeps out to stain the mosaic of a proud eagle soaring to the heavens in shades of crimson.

The guards arrayed between the Emperor and the rest of the room stand at the ready, facing outward. It is their duty to protect him with their lives, and they clearly trust the wife of the faithful Deus Jove to attend to him. Indeed, the low murmur of her words of comfort to Lucian reaches their ears, though the exact phrases cannot be made out.

Tros, seeing the horror that's been wrought, twists around to face the room. No one important, just a minor noble calling out what Craft already did. Maybe the shock of him having the gall to shout will stun people to stop the melee. "THE EMPEROR IS DOWN! STOP THIS FIGHTING?" Or perhaps he'll become a nice pin-cushion for his stunt.

The mob swirls. Aegians huddle in the corner, only a few joining the fray, and a handful more attempting to make for the doors. Those breaking for the doors are flanked by some of the few standing Schola, trying bravely to defend their charges.

Arahael only seems to redouble his efforts to reach wife and Emperor with Tros' shout. A panicked Aegian knocks into the Deus Jove, only to be shoved aside roughly, the older statesman sprawled to the floor by Arahael's off hand. The encounter slows Arahael, though, and brings him to the knot of guards surrounding Lucian at approximately the same time as Craft.

Craft continues forcing his way through the crowd to the Emperor, moving beside Arahael as the Emperor's Schola, not the purple-shoulder greaved Aegis Schola, move about their fallen leader. For a moment, he flicks his gaze to Jove, then throws a hard shoulder into the Crimson Guard's stomach who is barring the Deus from the Emperor, allowing access for both Deus and Tribune.

Lying in his own blood, with one hand now weakly gripping Megeara's chimere, staining the soft fabrics crimson, Lucian opens his mouth several times as if gasping for air. No sound passes his lips and the light in his eyes grows dimmer by the minute. In one final instant, a giant blast of wind surges through the chambers, likely stopping everyone in their tracks with the hint of promise lost and a future that will never happen.

Then everything is still and Lucian's hand slips free from Megeara's chimere.

Arahael grimaces as the gale blows at him, almost taking him from his feet as the winds tears at his half-furled wings and setting him back a moment. Regaining himself, his grey-eyed glare at the Schola before him only widens the gap knocked open by Craft, Tribune and Aegian coming to the side of the Emperor and Dea Jove.

Cassius is furthest away from those surrounding the Emperor, but even he is assailed by that final blast of wind, and his wings shudder and fold around him protectively, several feathers being yanked off to spiral around him. He watches from his vantage point, wary of any loose bolts soaring in his direction.

Xanthiel finally gets his crossbow reloaded, and steps back out into the thick of the fray. Most of the crossbow bolts have been spent at this point, bringing the fighting to a more personal sword-range, which is also more controllable, fortunately. "Praetorians, disengage! Now!" Unlike the other shouting, this one carries the force of a command, by the person to which the Praetorians are loyal to. The Schola who were fighting are mostly down or dead now, though they took out nearly their number in the Praetorian rebels, and without a voice to galvanize them, the Aegians have lost any will to throw themselves upon weapons. And then that blast of wind... that takes any remaining fight out of everyone in the room. The melee is over.

It is over. Craft's gaze lifts to Arahael, etching the man's expression into his mind as he addresses him. "It is over, Jove." His gaze flicks to the still form of Lucian, then to Megeara, then back to Arahael. "It's over," he repeats, standing up slowly.

Brilliantly white wings remain held out, sheltering the dead Emperor in the oddly calm area which surrounds him. Head bowed, the faint sounds of Megeara's sobs reach upward in the sudden silence which follows that death knell of wind. The Dea Jove kneels in an expanding puddle of blood. It seeps outward, soaking into the feathers of Lucian's awkwardly canted wings where he lays, and searching to drip downward from the dais which supports him. Her hands are coated in crimson as well, mute testimony to her attempts to stem the flow.

Still as he never was in life, Lucian's body lays there as a contrast of crimson against white. White wings, white chiton, blood red pooling and staining everywhere, tainting everything. Lifeless eyes stare up at the ceiling, open but without the spark the boy-Emperor once used to look upon the world.

With Lucian's corpse and his own sobbing wife before him, Arahael is unable to deny Craft's words. "It is," he quietly replies, the dangerous cast gone from his expression, replaced with angry sorrow. "In every way that I feared." The sword falls from his hand, metal clattering upon the stone, and the Deus Jove steps around Craft to his wife's side, both hands coming to rest upon her shoulders.

"What has happened?"

"The Emperor... does he live?"

"Oh, gods, where are the healers...?"

These cries and others are spoken and echoed throughout the vast hall as Aegians gradually come to their senses after that brief bout of patriotic fervor aroused by Trykolides.

Craft reaches down and takes Arahael's sword, now that the threat from Deus Jove is under control. He stands before the Emperor, glancing over the scores of eyes who look that way. "The Emperor is dead..." he says, allowing the myriad whispers to begin to circulate.

Unable to take her eyes off the dead monarch, Megeara flinches at Arahael's touch. Softly at first, and then louder, the whisper of her voice comes upward. "I tried... Lares and Penates forgive me. I tried..." Over and over she repeats those words, as the blood coagulates and thickens around her.

Mutely, the Praetorians begin to round up the Aegians and the surviving Schola. The room slowly begins to clear, paring down to the core of people around the fallen Emperor, a group which Xanthiel joins. "Someone get a healer... and a clairvoyant..." He gives the order to any of those listening who have nothing better to do. He kneels down next to the body, looking down at it closely.

"And you have won," Arahael says in a low tone, "A hollow victory, for the violence engendered by your acts has brought down the Emperor you professed to serve. Look upon what treason has wrought, remember it well."

Still standing a ways apart from the knot of people around the Emperor, Cassius watches in stunned silence. For once, the prominent Aegian is at a loss for words. He has served the Empyre for a good fifteen years, and studied its history since childhood. And he never thought he would see this day. Another feather sifts down, shed from his wings, to land on the blood-stained, mosaic floor near his sandals.

Craft looks to Xanthiel, "Praefect Augustin, 'clean up' is under your control." He raises his voice, "The War is stalled. We have much to do before formal negotiations can begin." His gaze drops to the Emperor. "The Empyre will go on, we will survive, Deus Jove. One man does not the Empyre make. I will not point fingers, nor atone for acts beyond mine, his, or your control."

The closeness of Xanthiel seeps its way into Megeara's consciousness and she shies abruptly away from him. Scarlet soon stains the chiton of Deus Arahael as well as she throws herself into his arms. All vestiges of her earlier haughty coldness have been swept away. The young Dea cries like a heartbroken child into her husband's chest.

The Tribune adds, glancing to Arahael, "Thousands of lives have already been claimed in this War, and I mourn for each, regardless if they are the Emperor himself or a lowly Velite Ceterion."

"I hope you are proud, brother," are Cassius' soft words. For once, they are spoken without spite or malice -- just a dreadful weariness that settles about his shoulders like a cloak. He watches his niece seek solace in the arms of her husband, and he blinks his ice-blue eyes and then focuses on the fallen body of the boy-Emperor. He may have disliked Lucian, and wanted him off the throne... but this... he never imagined this. Wings shuddering, he pivots, and glances at the nearest guardsmen. "Will you arrest me?" he calls, lifting his voice and retaining some measure of that former pride. At least he won't be dragged out of the hall like some common criminal. He'll go of his own volition, to whatever fate awaits him.

Arahael's arms wrap about Megeara. "Our pride was destroyed by Khalid Atar. You've shattered the Aegis. The Emperor lies dead, and tradition with it. The lares weep. All that remains is the honor of warriors to guide our people... and in that you have made us into a pale shadow of the Varati." He pauses. "Think well upon this hour, Praefect and Tribune, when the Empyre is crushed upon your shoulders. I say again, remember what you have wrought."

Craft steps away from the Emperor, "All members of the Aegis -- you are free to go home, but are under house arrest." He begins to think as he glances around.

Craft nods to the other Guardsmen situated around the room, each separating into threes and joining particular members of the Aegis in escorting them home.

Craft looks to Arahael. "Take the Dea home, Jove. Comfort her this evening. We all have much mourning to tend to, but many of us must be sharp in the coming days."

FIN  

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