Necia, the City-State of Phressia
In the villa of the Satrap, there was no sleep this evening. Csephion Draxus, elected by lot to oversee the dominion of Phressia, was troubled by the void. It was now one week since any news from the south. Without courier to assuage the fears of the people, the Satrap beseeched another source for news from beyond the horizon.
As the Satrap kneeled at a wooden table and covered himself with a shawl over the head, two attractive young Glaucan men soothed a ram, whose head and neck were adorned with floral garlands. They sang songs of honey and nectar to the animal, whose eyes reflected flickering torch light back to the Satrap.
"My Lord, I stand ready to deliver the profession of your desire to Denetion Medevantis, Ruler of the Limitless Dominion of the Sea. By the offering before you and by the profession of blood, what shall be delivered unto the deep?"
Beneath the waters of Phressia was the adjacent city-state of Ilyx, the ancient Glaucan citadel and one of the most austere sanctuaries built to honor the highest Sea god. As it was throughout the Republic, the cities of Men were the nexus of the two great peoples, for while Glaucans could thrive in the realm of air, Men would surely drown beneath the waves. Therefore, those Men who wished to pay homage to Denetion Medevantis, the Great Sea God must do so through proxy. There were no shortage of Glaucan priests, ready to ferry the desires and vexations of Men into the deep below, and to return with Denetion's austere response.
Csephion Draxus looked to the young man and then back to the ram.
"By profession of blood and the offering before me, I Draxus of the Csephii and Satrap of Phressia ask unto Denetion Medevantis to fly far and fast through his realm, and speed to me the location of Denix of the Parsidei, Captain and Imperator of the Republic."
Each young priest produced a curved knife, trimmed in gold. Still singing sweetly, one young priest slipped a knife across the Satrap's palm, while another across the Ram's throat. The blood from each was allowed to flow into the same vessel, which was shaped like a gilded fish, with a polished jasper stopper that fit flush over its pursed lips. The blood stopped dripping from Draxus' palm within seconds. The ram, however, was bled for a while longer, it's lifeless body falling limp onto the table.
Draxus was now attended to by a slave, who dressed his wound with a strip of silk, removing the shawl from his head as he rose to his feet. He nodded to the priests, who retreated from his villa with haste, carrying the bloody receptacle with them back down to the underwater city below.
Neverminding that, he retired from the atrium into a more secluded space while he waited for a divine answer. Already, his scribe slave, Pascias, was at work with correspondence.
"A pox on it, Pascias, I have no stomach for small affairs. Send them away for the evening."
Undaunted, Pascias held up a single parchment that had no identifiable marker.
"Begging your pardon Satrap, but a word comes from Asga on the matter of Fyrian. Supposedly a sighting in the flesh."
Annoyed, he snatched the scroll.
"Really Pascias, you'd do well to divest yourself from such fantasy. Fyrian is a story told to sailors and dullards. I do not doubt the fantasy's power, but as for what lies behind the name, it is less corporeal than the air you breathe."
Nevertheless, he unrolled the scroll. It wasn't the account of Fyrian that caught his attention. It was the parcel that the supposed Prince of Pirates carried. He quickly rolled the scroll up again, color momentarily leaving his face.
"The Lantern."
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