Thou Shalt Not Covet

Greed

Alafin stared down at the parchment covering the table of his war room. The tent itself billowed around him with the frosty gusts of winter. The dark, jagged lines on the maps in a constant state of flux with the dancing flames of the candlelight as the shadows of his generals and vassals swam in time with the breezes. It was strange that something so simple as lines on parchment could instill men to spill blood. Even more interesting was the knowledge that much, much more had been wrought during Alafin’s war than the mere shedding of brotherly blood, as his heart still pounded when he remembered the feel of his hands covered with the ashes of noble children.
So much death, Alafin thought, and still not enough to bring this land, my land, to kneel at my feet. His body began to tingle, as so often did when thoughts of lust saturated his being. Reflexively his hand gripped tight to the pommel of his blade and he shuddered. This dirt, this sand, this grass, is mine! In a calm, almost jovial voice Alafin said, “What is the status of our siege my vassals?”
The rise of tension in the room was almost immediate. Scowls, frowns, downcast eyes, and headshaking prevailed among the assembly. Kanagar, with his grey hair and silvery eyes was the first to speak. “Sire, with the two fronts we are currently pushing our troop regimens have been suffering. We’ve had to disband three companies already to keep the numbers of others to at least capacity. On top of this, our eastern campaign has been hit hard. Lord Tideri sends us word that the jungles of Rapathay slow travel to a crawl, with supply trains being lost or looted more often than not.” Vindicar, in his whitely dyed scale mail and lavishly curly blonde hair spoke next. “The weather and terrain are also having its effects.” Blood be spilled Alafin hated the nasal tone of Vindicar. “The winter here in the south is slowing our galley wagons and the rains in the east serve to both tarnish equipment and spoil rations.”
Lord Alafin had had enough. The rage inside him swarmed over his mind like angry hornets on a rotten carcass. His eyes began to glow with their sickly, seeping yellow. Like lightening Alafin seized Vindicar by the throat with hefted him into the air in one motion. The audience of Lords and generals exploded, crying for mercy, issuing warnings, pleading with advice. The weakness of the assembled tribes of conquered nations sickened Lord Alafin. The smoky residue of his glowing eyes wafted into Vindicars’ horrified face. Alafin could feel the death in the room, it was almost erotic. He could feel the worth of Vindicar, his gold, his people, his lands. Each bite of it filled Lord Alafin with exultation and desire. He clenched his fist and Vindicars’ beautiful blue eyes burst. Blood lathered Lord Alafins’ mailed fist and he tossed the carcass to the frozen ground. He rounded on his audience, the ecstasy of the kill gripping him from the base of his neck, his eyes slightly rolling. The long dagger slid from its scabbard in a sweet breath of release. Alafin slammed the blade onto the table, into the land of Galard, and he could almost see the blood running freely from the wound in the parchment. In a husky voice he continued. “I will have THIS land and THAT land and ALL land!” He scanned the audience with his malevolently yellow, glowing eyes. “And now, with Vindicars’ land being my own we will have more resources at our disposal. So, how do you suggest we proceed?”
Again, in his stone solid voice, Kanagar was the first to speak.