Miroslav had slept late into the morning – it was one of the many perks of being Nobility. There were not any real duties that he had to perform (since he was neither a guard nor a nanny, the former of which he considered grunt work well beneath him and the latter of which he considered downright silliness; he was not, after all the type to be found cavorting with ignoble strangers or children), and in that pleasant abundance of time, he found that there were opportunities to be as lazy as he wished to be. Now that he had returned to the safety of the pride, he no longer even had to do much hunting for himself – he had lowly serfs to do that for him now.
For indeed, in Miroslav’s world, anybody whose coat did not carry a significant amounts of purple was a serf, born to do one thing and one thing only: obey his orders. They were lowly, insignificant creatures that were not worth his time of day, and he was fully convinced that there would be no future for them until they realized it. It had nothing to do with their emotional well-being, of course. He didn’t imagine that they would be any happier for realizing that their lives had no value other than to please the Nobles, but he suspected there would be less conflict in his life if they did. There would be fewer creatures acting indignant and attempting to weasel their way out of obeying simple orders, and that would have made everything better by far.
Of course, that wasn’t to say his life was currently pleasant enough. That he had earned the new King’s tentative trust (he would’ve have quite called it that, though, for Bwana had seemed less that excited at Miroslav’s return) was enough to carry him through most of his days. It had all become a game, a waiting game in which the time had yet to come for him to strike out and act. He had to be patient here, for he had neither a concrete plan nor sufficient supporters to carry anything out, and he had yet to properly weigh the consequences of his vengeful pretensions.
It was quite a burden for anyone to carry, but Miroslav was of noble blood, capable of anything, though he quite fancied himself to be rather like an Atlas carrying the world upon his shoulders. There was a sense of tremendous chivalry in what he was doing – so he told himself. And with these thoughts, he padded along the cliff of Elsinore, reveling in the soft wind that pulled at his mane and the sound of songbirds singing in the air.
Then he stopped short, caught where he was by a most despicable sight: a lion, a commoner – a serf – wandering along the very same stretch of Elsinore as he. Miroslav felt his lip curl in disgust as he surveyed the blasphemous creature from afar. Not a speck of purple on his fur, and the only part of him that was remotely like nobility was his dark mane, but even that was clearly blue and not purple, rendering him a commoner and therefore absolutely unfit to be anywhere near Miroslav’s home. Or even in his field of vision. Serfs should stay where serfs belong, and Elsinore was not that place.
An angry growl slipped from the overwhelmingly purple lion’s muzzle. In ten massive strides, he had closed the distance between himself and the pale blue lion, and was now glaring directly into the other male’s eyes. He was shocked to find that they were surprisingly like his own, a similar shade of brilliant amber, perhaps only a tad darker. “You,” he growled, recovering from his initial shock. ”What do you think you’re doing here?”
To Miroslav’s horror, the lighter lion did not seem in the least fazed by his anger. Instead, the pale lion simply shrugged and shook his head. ”I was searching for someone,” he said simply. ”She lives in this area.” It was such ridiculousness that Miroslav had to consciously refrain from hurling himself at the younger lion and teaching him a real, physically painful lesson about his lowly place in life.
”You are mistaken, peasant,” Miroslav spat, eyeing the lawless stranger. ”Only Nobles reside in Elsinore.” And he refused to believe that any of his fellow Nobles would sink as low as to have dealings with common folk. Or possibly, even worse, a Groundling. Though this one didn’t quite have that look.
”I am a Player, lord, not a peasant, though I can hardly consider it an insult. And if Nobles reside in Elsinore, as you say and as I was long informed, lord, she must be here.” The pale lion replied, calmly, though it was evident to both that his willingness to suffer abuse at the hands of Miroslav was running low. Well, let him snap, Miroslav thought, I will teach him a lesson and then good riddance. ”Her name is Raziela Liron.”
Miroslav had to stop and blink. Raziela Liron, the daughter of that most charming pair of Nobles with all the perfect purple children? It couldn’t be! Though Miroslav did not know the family well at all, he had taken an immediate liking to its elder members, who he had yet to meet personally, but had heard nothing but (in his opinion) good things about. And here he was, hearing about their daughter off gallivanting with a commoner? It was almost unimaginable. ”You stay well away from that well-behaved, charming young lady, you proper imbecile!” He all but spluttered in his outrage. ”She has a promising future in this society, and your association with her can do nothing but ruin her reputation!” This blasphemy was almost more than Miroslav could bear. He could feel a blinding, red rage blur his vision at the very thought of this lowly player compromising the lovely young lioness’ prospects. How dare he!
”Yet, it was not I who first approached her, but she me. I say this with all due respect, sire, but I believe she should be the one to decide her own fate. If she chooses to halt her liaison with me, I will gladly let her be, but until then, I suppose I have as much right to be seeking her advice as you, my lord.” The pale lion responded, though he had sensed the other’s anger and had begun to back away, out of paw’s reach. Miroslav was both larger and better muscled than he, as well as finely trained in the art of war. What little Derasan knew of fighting came from the stage – mock battles to entertain audiences. The Noble would rip him to pieces if afforded the opportunity.
”It is neither your right to think it nor right,” Miroslav snapped, his claws unsheathing and gripping at the cliff floor. ”And if you would prefer to leave Elsinore today with your life intact, I would suggest you turn around now.”
The Player hesitated, his fiery gaze dropping to the Noble’s impressive claws, and he backed away even further. He had heard of this one. That old warmonger from before Bwana’s time who had come back – rumors were, he was back to set the pride back to its old ways. Word on the street was that he was a ruthless warrior, and hungry for blood. ”Do tell Raziela I stopped by.” Derasan said coldly before turning to retreat back to Mviringo valley.
Miroslav stood and watched the Player’s retreating form. ”I will do no such thing,” he muttered under his breath. No, he would most certainly not tell Raziela of this failed visit. But there was somebody else he would tell.
WC: 1294
