The Second.... Thingy

[quu]

Welcome, outlanders, to the throne room of (presently unconscious) King Alxis of Glazingstoke. The lilac-colored eyes of the sorcerous Prince Joffrey fix with unnerving penetration upon the party of outlanders as he clasps his beloved father to his breast. Limned he is by the last of his flames; their low ebb purples the face of the slumbering king. The echoes of deep magic swirl in the room and color the sunlight that streams through the windows.

"Explain yourselves." He commands. It is the tone of someone who is used to being obeyed immediately.

Behind him, about him, a few guards are coming around from their poisonous nap. Groggy blinking; clumsy, sleep-swollen hands fumbling to check upturned helmets, or grasp weapons, or smooth ruffled feathers. A muffled "wut happnd" slurs from someone's numb lips. Two piles of black ash smoulder silently upon the dais.

(Free-for-all response)

Comments

[mccrusty]

Well.

He isn't dead yet, so that's saying something. He can't say it's comfortable being clapped in irons while the general public gives him the stink eye, but he can't say it's the first time, either. So McCoy can only take a few deep, calming breaths, scratch an itch under one ear, and wonder how or when he might need to treat a sword wound.

"If anybody's still feelin' light-headed," he says, mainly to the general air. "I'd recommend something warm to drink, maybe some porridge if you're stomach's not doing too well. Fresh air helps some, too."

[quu]

The guards impassively sneer. Well, one of them impassively sneers. The other one sneers less impassively and silently notes the advice. His stomach did feel like it was full of quibbling ferrets.

This hallway is surprisingly long.