Late Courier

Meanwhile, somewhere in Archades. . .

 Daschel swirled the Archadian dark red in his goblet, brows arched as he looked over at the messenger.  His guards had informed him minutes before of the courier's arrival from the desert pisshole known as 'Emberstrand', and that he had pressing information from the embassy located within the sandy walls.  It was certainly improper to appear before a member of nobility smeared in desert dirt and looking as though they hadn't slept or bathed in two weeks, and Daschel tapped his fingers irritably against the stem.

 "My lord, I ap-apologize for disturbing you so late--"

 "You had better apologize, courier," Daschel growled irritably.  "I've a courtesan I've paid time on, and I'd like to use her tonight.  So, speak."

 The courier fiddled with the parchment roll before handing it over to the irritated lord.  "Lady Mathwis wished me to inform you that she had located the individual you had been requesting."

 The ugly smile that graced Daschel's lips made the courier step back.  "Ah, my dear Mathwis...  I knew you'd let me know where my errant brother is."  Parchment crinkled in the man's hand as he unrolled it, examining the contents.

 His brother had taken residence in Emberstrand, and had even the gall to host a pair of feasts while using the Corlan name.  The description provided by the embassy's spymistress left little doubt as to the identity of the newest Archadian transplant.  His brother, and from appearances, a girl he had kept from the family, supposedly his daughter.  The other parchment pieces wrapped within showed charcoal pictures, the girl appearing familiar.

 "Oh, dear brother.  So you meant to hide this little surprise from me"  Daschel placed the parchment on his desk, looking to the courier.  "You've done well, courier.  I should make certain to give you full recompense."  The drawer to his left held smooth, useful metal as he drew it out, aiming.

 "Pity you were a week late delivering this information to me," Daschel said, voice taking on a flippant quality.  He drew the firearm back, tapping his temple as he studied the trembling courier.  "Tell me how you would deal with the situation, courier?"

 The courier continued trembling, voice quavering.  "I-I w-would g-grant clemency, my L-Lord."

 Daschel studied the courier before him, eyes alighting.  "It's a good thing I'm not you."  The barrel took aim and fired, leaving a red mist in its wake, spattering the wall behind, body thumping to the floor.

 "Clean it up," Daschel said to the guard on duty, rising as he slid the firearm in the drawer.  "I've a whore to bed."

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