Headed by a Snake



⟬ Outside the outer walls of City-State Whitehearth, eastern staging area, dawnbreak. ⟭ 

Despite Domhnall's[1] dulled senses, he felt the oncoming morning to be surprisingly warm.

It wasn't a good sign. 

It was potentially a very minor harbinger of ash and fire. 

Domhnall was not a superstitious man. 

And that was despite being born and raised in Port City Vralkek, a city of sailors and the collective superstitions of a hundred seaborne cultures. 

So, it was a droll coincidence that, a mere three bells prior... 

--his left hand stopped working. 

It was an expensive, artificial hand, designed and produced in Whitehearth. 

...He couldn't get it repaired, though; the entire city had been evacuated. 

The artifice was special-ordered from the Arcanite Princess, so it had a unique, Elven aesthetic. 

...Which also meant that, without reverse-engineering, only the elves of House Moonwell would have the schematics for it. 

--and every city-elf had been long relegated to the rearmost echelons... 

Domhnall's left hand was non-functional and would remain as such. 

That worsened his situation considerably, as his remaining right hand had been lopped off over a decade prior. 

He stared down at the stumps of his forearms. The prostheses attached to both ended in fighting blades. 

Made for fighting.

Great for fighting.

Not so much for anything else. 

Around the same time his left hand began to lose responsiveness, Domhnall noticed another peculiar coincidence. 

The band of his 'lucky' bracelet had frayed and, soonafter, came undone. 

While wearing it, he had not experienced any quantifiable changes in his fortune, nor did he expect such an occurrence. 

That would make him superstitious-- which he was not. 

The bracelet had no real value. It was not enchanted and its workmanship was mediocre at best. It was a bundle of polished, glassy beads, strung together on a knotted leather string. 

However... Domhnall's first instinct when it broke was to chase the scattered beads as they rolled off. 

And with his only artificial hand broken, he lacked the manipulative digits to recover them with any reasonable measure of efficacy. 

Thus... he gathered the beads together by kicking them about. And then, when no one was looking, he got down to his knees and elbows, recovering the beads by placing them in his mouth. 

And since then, in his mouth, they have remained. 

He was going to need assistance to safely stow his 'lucky' beads for eventual repair while also keeping his dignity intact. 

...He believed his best option would be to find a Nemayan Strider. 

The regulars of the Sleeping Country could be trusted to keep a secret-- or at least the dead ones, did. 

There were just... far more living and breathing people in the muster camps than not. 

Requesting assistance from an undead Nemayan regular was far preferential to seeking out a lady, gentleman, or distinguished warrior from a different nation...

--the reason for that being... 

Domhnall was dead.

That is... he died six years prior. 

That... was a less memorable sun than the very next, upon which he made a deeply regrettable mistake. 

He went back to work. 

Word traveled quickly to the King. 

The King consulted with Prince Droghan[2] and the royal advisors. 

The Prince presented Domhnall with a decision. 

'Work at the Free Nation embassy in Nemaya Strana,' he said. 

...It wasn't really a choice between that and something else. Refusing a direct order from a War Prince was grounds for punishment according to military law. 

And so... Domhnall did as he was told. 

The undead held a respected status in the Sleeping Country, quite contrary to anywhere else in the Realm. It had been tradition over the past two hundred years or so that the top percentile of Nemayan soldiers were raised after death. 

Supposedly, the honor was restricted to those with a clean background and only after a basic psychological test and written consent. (Though it must be said that Nemayan policies in the past were not as strict as the contemporary standards.)

Naturally-occurring, sentient undead were increasingly rare-- but so much so that Nemayan culture did not differentiate between them. 

Sentient undead were promoted to Officer-rank, a standard established when Queen Arendelle took the throne. 

Thus, Domhnall had a peculiar status in the nation. While he wasn't a Nemayan native, he was treated in a similar manner to a low-level officer. 

(But, then again... a well-dressed fellow in a steady line of work would command a decent level of respect, anywhere he went.)

It was actually very nice, working at the Nemayan embassy. 

Domhnall received courtesy invites to military-related social gatherings and would attend one or three, each year.

He received special pay in addition to his base rate for taking residence so far away from home. 

He didn't spend much coin either, as he didn't have a family to support... 

Also, he didn't need to eat. 

He didn't miss that as much as he thought he would. 

Still...

It was the very principle, he found upsetting: being sent away from home and forced to adhere to his contract despite *extraordinary* conditions. 

When most people died, they were 'let go' from their careers. 

Domhnall had served for another six years. 

...In another eight months, he'd have the option to renew his contract... but last he checked, his office had *yet* to make a request for his replacement! 

Throughout the accursed Realm, *every* office in *eVery* branch of *eVeRy* government comprised nothing but lazy bastards! 

Domhnall shook his head in annoyance.

People didn't want to work anymore. 

"Donny boy! Hey! I see you, ya little twerp!!"

And the biggest example of which had arrived. 

For the first time in a very long time, Domhnall wished he had eyelids-- just so he could shut his eyes in exasperation. 

The volume of the minor insult carried across the eastern camp. Likely, the northern camp heard it, too. 

Domhnall didn't believe in luck. That would make him superstitious-- which he wasn't.

But, if he did... he'd have reason to believe he was a rather unlucky individual. 

That voice... belonged to the King of Vralkek, his former superior. 

The thunderous steps of Merchant King Guorthigirn[3] shook the very ground... greatly annoying and inconveniencing the various soldiers resting nearby. 

He was a massive gentleman, not merely in height but in the intimidating size of his chest and arms, fully clad in heavy, dark-colored plate armor. He walked without his helmet, allowing his vibrant red hair and beard to flow in the wind as if they were dancing flames. 

(It was not a good luck. He needed a haircut.)

Domhnall rendered a light bow as the fiery King approached. 

A deeper bow would have been appropriate, considering the Giant-King's royal status. But... as King Guorthigirn was 12 fulms tall, (and that was in his magically reduced form,) bowing felt stupid. 

"[I greet you, Lord,]" Domhnall said. 

He had no problems speaking despite the beads in his mouth. He could use mana to talk-- and he liked the intimidating texture of his rough, gravelly mana-voice. 

--not that it could intimidate Guorthigirn. 

"Oho. You're looking a little *pale,* Donny boy!"

It was the King's humor, among other things, that made him often difficult to deal with. 

Every two weeks, King Guorthigirn sent a missive to the embassy in Nemaya filled with relevant news. 

At surface level, he was going above and beyond his duties, keeping his subordinates informed of the difficulties and achievements of the other offices. 

However, without fail, Guorthigirn appended the bi-monthly missive with a banal play-on-words or a pedestrian anecdote on a mundanity that occurred in one of the western offices. 

"[I appreciate the... concern, my Lord,]" Domhnall replied. 

"Oho, so you can talk without moving your lips," Guorthigirn exclaimed, somehow impressed by Elementary-Rank magic. "Neat trick! Would've been real useful for the times my wife told me to shut my mouth!"

"[Lord, I feel obligated to remind you that it's a crime to defame the former Queen.]"

"Says who?"

"[You, lord.]"

"...Oh, yeah," Guorthigirn frowned. "I uh... I did say that."

"[ And the crime is punishable by death.]"

"But if I execute my-*self,*" the King said with a grin, "then you'd lose your place as the most qualified dead guy on the team!"

"[Speaking of qualifications, please find a replacement so I can retire.]"

"How 'bout you send a request through the proper channels?"

"[You're a proper channel.]"

"YOU'RE a... hm. Huh. You're right," Gurtohigirn admitted with a chuckle. "I'll take care of it when I get some free time, Donny Boy. It's been real busy! World's about to end, y'know."

"['Tis my final wish, Lord.]"

"Maybe your final wish should be to get a wife."

"[I'm not interested in women.]"

"A husband, then."

King Guorthigirn was a very difficult person to deal with. 

[Too. LOUD.]

A voice-- or rather, a mental transmission on the level of an offensive attack rattled around Domhnall's brain housing group. 

It left a dull pain. All pain Domhnall felt was rather dull. But he took solace in that Giant-King Guorthigirn had a rather large brain rattling about in a much larger and much fuller skull. 

He was likely in a great *deal* of pain. 

"Ow, that... that smarts," Guorthigirn whined. 

A sudden gust of wind brought about a whirl of summer leaves. 

The dancing golds and oranges whirled around and about, finding their place atop an old and flattened tree stump. 

The leaves stopped abruptly, floating in place for a half-second before quickly falling in... and piecing together a four-fulm tall gnome. 

He was the master of the embassy in the Magic Kingdom, a venerable, old gnome. He was old when even Guorthigirn, the oldest Titanblood in Vralkek, had yet to cross over into the Realm. 

While his true name had been long forgotten, the generations before him called him... Leafstrangle.

[1] Domhnall: A Free Nation named pronounced 'dah-noll.'

[2] Droghan: A certain Sol Invictus member. His name is pronounced 'dro-wayn.'

[3] Guorthigirn: A Free Nation name pronounced 'vor-tih-grn.'