Thread:Berry6419/@comment-26767096-20161101141456/@comment-26767096-20161108024447

By the time you return to your pavilion, it is already crowded with your captains: exiles, mercenaries, devils of independent means. The Possessed Emissary. (You watch her closely.) The monkey-queen from the Empire of Hands, her eyes ablaze with soul-greed. The Bishop of St Fiacre's, face frozen in a grimace of delight. And safe behind a pale mask, December of the Calendar Council.

You don't keep them waiting.

"You followed me here: and I have preserved you! Did I not promise you as much? The Wax-Wind still sleeps. The rain of souls has passed. We have shamed the Presbyter, the Old God, the hirelings of the Bazaar. And in three days' time..."

You have all their attention: but you let them savour the moment. "In three days' time, we will breach the Mountain. The spoils are nothing less than life eternal! And then, I shall share it with the world!"

Your captains are on their feet, applauding. The Bishop rises only grudgingly. Of course: he had hoped the Garden would be preserved for his people. But he had always known it would be harder than that. He'll be no trouble.

What of the others? The Possessed Emissary is inscrutable: her eyes are mirrors. December is pleased, of course, although you imagine that one might have been just as pleased had you chosen to dynamite the Mountain. The devils are arguing fiercely over what it might mean.

You step out of the tent and raise your hand to shade your eyes. This close, the Mountain of Light casts shadows of noon-time sharpness. "General?" a voice says behind you. It's your subaltern. There are tears in his eyes. "You were right, general. You were right all along. There can't be enough statues to you."

"If we succeed," you point out. You shade your eyes again to look at the bright slopes of the Mountain. "No one ever has, you know."