https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WRMnpbk4MYA&ab_channel=moviesoundtrackgod - Proclamation at the PalaceThe onset of winter is a perilous time for those seafarers that would seek to brave the waters of the Cathagi Strait. Sea storms are a regular occurrence in this time of year, fierce and dangerous enough to doom vessels caught betwixt them. Sometimes those storms carry well past the Strait and hit the mainlands of southern Canton or northern Cathagi. However, none who were present at the Crescent Palace that day could recall, even if pressed, whether there was so much as a cloud in the sky when they heard the ominous rumble that coincided with those portentous words.
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">“HOLD.”</span></span> The advancing spearmen balk at your thundering empyrean voice, the mercenaries hands start to their weapons, the Merchanta physically flinch and even your companions jolt back in shock. <span class="mu-i">“Know that I walk here, consecrated in the highest authority.”</span>
The fat Merchanta recovers second, a moment after his calmer peer settles back into his carefully neutral expression. <span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-g"> “You are not a servant of our Master Most High -yet-, little exile.”</span></span>
Feeling the boundless warmth on your shoulder, in this moment you could shrug off an avalanche. You could stare down a hundred basilisks. There is no feat of strength or preservation beyond you, if the Almighty but wills it so. Against this the feeble designs of a few tawdry merchantmen is less than nothing.
<span class="mu-i">“Hmph.”</span> You scoff at the Master of Spices, a Prince of Cathagi in his own right, not bothering to hide the righteous scorn from your expression. <span class="mu-i">“I serve -the- God, not -a- God. And He walks with me.”</span>
<span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-g">“...”</span></span> The Master of Spices Arap Bata stares blankly at you during Antoninus’ translation, before finally murmuring to his colleague just loud enough to hear. <span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-g">“Yildirm… This man is clearly insane.”</span></span>
<span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-g">“Careful Bata, these northerners are touchy when it comes to their faith.”</span></span> The Master of Silks Barak Yildirm regards you with a calculating glare, one that reminds you not just a little bit of Sir Robert Gilbern. Or perhaps his father. <span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-g">“Although that is a bold claim, even by their zealous standards.”</span></span>
<span class="mu-i"> “You doubt me. I understand, and I forgive you. We live in a fallen world, and doubt is a natural part of that reality. It matters not. But know this.”</span> Your unflinching gaze floats first across each of the Merchanta, then on their mercenaries and attendants, before finally falling on each individual face of the six slave spearmen formed directly ahead. <span class="mu-i">“Whomsoever raises their blade in opposition to His instrument shall be cast down, as surely as the sun rises each day.”</span>
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