3 Courtly Introductions #3
“I’d like little better, Your Highness,” I replied with heartfelt truth.
I needed something to pep me up after forty hours of continuous wakefulness and calm me down so I could mingle with these seasoned socialites.
The prince gestured towards the bar, and with a stilted courtly bow, I left him to make my way towards the libations.
There were more people in the hall now, and not all were Allied diplomats.
Imp nobles had appeared, clustering at the far side of the room, but unmistakably Imperial.
They towered over the Allies, reaching twelve feet if you took their horns into account, and wore fine silks garishly combined with cured skins from whatever dangerous beasts they’d killed, decorated with bright feathers from rare predatory birds, baring strong limbs and toned torsos to showcase their fearsome physiques.
I glanced at their hips and saw the magnetic sheathes of zeroblades.
They only carried daggers and short swords, but the fact that the Imp nobles wore real weapons gave me considerable relief.
At least somebody on their side took us seriously.
Fortunately for me, none of the Imperials seemed thirsty, so I only had to compete with parched Allies to belly up to the bar.
Before I could catch the bartender’s attention though, an earsplitting metallic bang echoed through the hall, drawing everyone’s attention to the raised stage on which no one had stood moments before.
Imp guards stalked its perimeter, preventing partygoers from climbing atop it.
Unnoticed by anyone, Imperial technicians had erected a golden portal ring.
It was flanked by two pairs of guards, serious soldiers rather than the party favors who’d watched over us since we’d arrived.
These warriors were eleven feet tall if they were a foot and wore little more than equipment-bearing combat webbing.
Their greatswords, held pointed towards the ceiling, glittered with the unnatural dark distortion of zeroblades, delicately slicing through dimensions with each tiny movement caused by the demons’ heartbeats.
These were no calculated insults, but real Imperial guards.
Several hordlings scuttled out of the portal.
These smaller, weaker, lesser demons carried an impressive throne of polished pearlescent nacre designed to represent a winged, crowned gryphon.
The armrests and feet were carved to look like clawed paws.
Silver-thread cushions adorned the armrests, seat, backrest and headrest. Large feathered wings stretched to either side of the silver back, and the headrest was surmounted by an immense metal sculpture of an Imperial crown.
The hordlings set the throne on the dais and disappeared back into the shadows.
A demon prince emerged from the portal, appearing from nowhere, distorted as though viewed through a bubble of water, then resolving into ordinary proportions.
She was a fearsome specimen, inches taller and better-muscled than any of the other Imperial guards, and armed well enough to take all of them on.
She, too, was practically attired, although her belts and straps were midnight-blue and gold instead of silver, black, and burgundy like the guards, her horns tipped with zeroblade points.
She cleared her throat and bared thin lips over a mouth of black fangs.
“Lords of the Empire, honored allies, and privileged guests, all hail her most Imperial Majesty, the Mother of the Voidskies, Overlord of Disparate Starlands, Domina of Fallspace, Invader of the Usurpers’ Homeworlds, Emperor Iyulya Romula Augusta Astridur!”
Her leg appeared first, encased in a shiny black boot with a shimmering silver high heel.
Satin silk stockings ran over her muscular calf, knee, and thigh.
Then the rest of her came into view: a dress black as an oil slick, slit up the one leg, concealing the other beneath a dark rainbow of shadowed colors.
Black velvet gloves covered her hands and climbed almost to her shoulders, with shimmering silver fingernail caps long enough to claw somebody’s face off.
On her head, she wore a circlet of twisting platinum that contrasted with her sun-blonde hair.
Winking purple amethysts shone from her forehead, throat, and bosom to accent her bronze skin and emerald eyes.
Decorative platinum caps tipped her blue-black horns.
Her heels clicked powerfully on the raised dais where she stopped as if to pose, lazily dangling the Imperial baton which signified her rank as Emperor.
Every inch of her radiated power, from the lean lines of her legs and the sheathed points of her horns to the fierce, hard, accusing gaze she leveled at the Allied notables assembled before her.
In many ways, she looked like my old Academy girlfriend. She had grown taller since our school days, but somehow seemed less vibrant. Much of the joy had drained from her face. As had the rage. Both were replaced by an iron mask of strength.
Emperor Astrid had arrived.