Wasted Potential Surrounds Us

The pale figure upon the throne was enshrouded in many-layered robes of resplendent white, decorated with silver and blue; long tresses of platinum blonde were caught in an intricate updo and covered with a lace-like cap of pure etherium, studded with many precious stones.

Following the unfortunate and terribly untimely death of the much-loved Hegemon, Esper had been thrown in political turmoil. None of the parties had been as successful in a coup as she had been - politics were, after all, her second most beloved way to spend time. 

A very fine smile passed over her face as she surveyed the throne room. Some who saw it, might say it was just this side of cruel. 

To the victor go the spoils.

Esper was hers.

In front of the dais upon which the throne stood, forced to their knees by the guards, sat the would-be leaders of Esper.

‘Gentlemen,’ she started, her voice all ice and metal and no softness whatsoever, 'we have had a good run, but the game is over.’ Just as she had designed. She would rule with an etherium hand, and none would be a match to her intellect. Mera gave a nod to the man standing behind her on the dais; the executioner. 

Approximately five minutes later the problem of possible coups against her person had been permanently taken care of. 

There was an anguished expression on her face as she pushed herself up from the cobblestones, her robes torn and various cuts and bruises littering those parts of her body that could still cut and bruise.

‘I yield,’ she gasped, 'I yield. You win.’

Her adversary let go of the mana he had gathered and looked down on her. The look on the face of her once-friend was one of equal parts pity and antipathy. A cocktail vedalken were particular adept at, and one that set her blood aboil.

Olivaw shook his head. 'You were always passionate, even for a human, but why did you go to these lengths?’

'I had to know - you should understand, Olivaw. I cannot not know, it would kill me!’

'Instead, your actions caused the deaths of many others. This is not the woman I once called friend.’

Slowly, shakily, she got up. She put no weight on her right leg, and her non-etherium arm hung limply at her side. 'That is a cruel thing to say, even for a vedalken. Will you ever forgive me?’

'Forgiveness is not mine to give–your due punishment will be decided in court. Come now, Mera. You are in no state to do anything else.’

The vedalken stepped towards her and made a move as if to shackle her with magic bonds, but she was one step ahead and ducked out of the way, her arm and leg not-so-miraculously recovering as she twirled around and poised herself behind him. A long, glittering poniard appeared in her hand, and a second later it embedded itself in Olivaw’s skull with a crunching sound.

Blueish grey blood trickled from his ears as he crumpled into a lifeless heap on the cobblestones.

Mera sighed, feeling some regret over his passing. But it was inevitable.

The foot that was on his throat could only be described as petite, but the pressure it exercised was enough to effectively block his windpipe. Slowly but surely, the man’s face started growing purple. 

Mera watched the effect with interest.

Violence is a sign of incompetence - that had always been her motto. Lately, however, she had come to appreciate the effects of precisely applied destructiveness, though she still preferred to call it exploiting one’s weaknesses over the term “fighting”.

Only when his eyes started rolling back into his skull, she relented slightly. Coughing and gasping for breath, he still managed to spit out some curses. Really, now. How rude. 

‘I will ask you only once more,’ she said, her voice cold and with all the bite of a dagger thrust to the kidneys, 'who sent you?’

The answer, as far as she could discern, had more to do with certain objects he would have her insert into particular parts of her anatomy than with who had hired him. Mera pursed her lips, not even wasting any breath on calling him an idiot, but simply blocking his again by pressing her foot down once more.

The beauty of etherium was that it could apply far more force than muscle.

His feet beat a short staccato on the ground, his fists and head trashing wildly about. Mera studied her nails until his flailing stopped. The would-be-assassin’s eyes were popping out of his skull, and his tongue protruded from his mouth. Otherwise, he was perfectly still and most certainly dead.

Halfway through her second glass of wine, her headache had abated. This had nothing to do with the alcohol, since it hardly affected her if she did not want it to, but everything with the fact that being away from her workshop for this time had calmed her down.

Now that she felt less like biting off the heads of anyone that dared approach her - a sentiment that she had been exuding quite clearly, resulting in no one actually striking up a conversation with her -, Mera brushed an imaginary crease from her dress and mingled with the other guests.

The woman in gold was chatting with a rather shabby-looking individual. An odd choice of conversational partner for one who was clearly a lady of high stature, Mera felt, but none of her business.

She passed a window and looked out at the garden. A cobblestone path led out into the grounds, which were illuminated by strings of lanterns and the occasional brazier. Some guests were outside to catch some fresh air or simply gaze up at the stars; she saw a boy who could not be over fifteen, and a tall, blue figure dressed in a type of formal armour that was completely unknown to her.

The hall itself was a grand affair in marble, with crystal chandeliers and ceilings covered in gold and silver filligree of the most refined kind. Many people had taken to the dancefloor, and Mera smiled to herself as she recognized Vraska and Lothlia.

There were a few butlers walking around with trays of sparkling wine and small morsels, though the guests could also repair to the bar at the edge of the dancefloor to give their feet some rest. As she walked past and let her eyes travel over those sitting there, a man sidled up to a young woman dressed in a silver gown oddly reminiscent of Esper, commenting on her beauty. A bit further down sat a blonde girl, staring wistfully into her glass of liquor. The black hue of her dress was in stark contrast to her skin - it produced an aesthetically rather pleasing effect.

Suffice to say, she was quite miffed.

When a dark-haired woman dressed in an opulent golden dress started making polite chit-chat with her, it took her all she had to remain courteous. Mera had hoped that she would be spared the inevitable social part of the event for at least a while longer.

'Do excuse me,' she told the dark-haired lady when next the opportunity arose, and with a nod of her head made off in the other direction.

The men and women floating around the ballroom were all dressed in their absolute finery. Mera, for the occasion, had decided on a dress in white lace. It showed off the etherium curves of her enhancements in a tasteful way - certainly not as in-your-face as that golden dress.

'My, Vraska, what a thing to say!' she chuckled and shook her head.