A New King
“So, are you some sort of court wizard then? Can’t say I really appreciate your sense of style, but I’m sure we can fix that.”
The stone throne— scarred by battle as much as careless revelry and the act of building the thing— was too big for anyone to comfortably sit in unless they were already bigger than the average person. The last Plank King commanded the space by sheer enormity and bulk alone, towering over those who dared come before him without even needing to stand from the seat. Broad shoulders filled the void created by the storm-blackened stone carved from the cliffs of Darktow itself; meaty hands slotted into gaps of the carved armrests held in place with makeshift, salted mortar— —where shards of the stone peeked between scarred and marked knuckles like a threat to whomever stood before it. The dais the throne was affixed to was blacked by blood, beer, and wine, scarred by swords and magic as much as the heavy tread of boots decorated with improvised weapons. A deep gash where a blade had scratched through the stone itself caught the light of the dancing torches, and the battle-worn, hard won seat of Revelry power loomed over the room like a spectre of promised death.
At its centre was always the threat of what and who would fulfil that promise.
Kingsley did not fill the space like his predecessor did. He did not sit with jagged shards and flint between his fingers and booted feet flatly on the scarred dais beneath him. He did not slouch forward with a scowl the way others did, so when they stood it was more intimidating.
The tiefling smiled, and draped a leg over the armrest with no apparent thought to the slight movements that threatened to add his own blood to the mix of stains and salt and jagged gashes in the weather worn ancient stone. He let his tail curl lazily to the floor, bangles and trinkets carefully chosen from a hoard only he could access ringing cheerful chimes through the room. The void of the throne’s back glittered in places where minerals and faults could not be carved away or were previously covered by broad shoulders and larger forms, and the light now danced around him as he looked over his guests with the curl of an arrogant smirk on his lips. Sword still sheathed at his hip and tap-tap-tapping against the stone with every gesture, movement, and breath as much as the decorations he adorned himself with for the hour.
“Really, Essek, do you have no taste? Sense of fashion? Dramatics? Flair?”
“Oh,” Caleb’s voice was soft. In general. Kingsley had liked the understated nature and soft accent when it wound its way through a room like smoke almost as much as it burned in the heat of the moment in a fight; “he can be dramatic when needed.”
To his credit, Essek only rolled his eyes at the petty jabs. This was not his first time before a throne built to intimidate. It was not his first time before his partner’s family, being assessed in that playful cruelty they had with each other. He had been baited by Kingsley before. Compared to Jester, Veth, and Beau, Kingsley was an amateur on his best days.
“If you think I will be decking myself in trinkets and pointless silks for your amusement—“
“I wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Caleb muttered with a smile.
“— then I am sorry to disappoint.” The finality in Essek’s tone was directed to both of the smiling miscreants he had decided to love for some reason that he was sure made sense at the time.
Kingsley grinned from the throne; toothy, fanged, and more joyous than any menacing smirk from a predecessor might have managed on his best day. “Fine, fine, you’re no fun. I’ll find a spot to squirrel you away while you work on those wards we dismantled. Can you fix a wall, by chance?”
