Scene One

The scene fades in with a wide shot of a planet cloaked in darkness. What ever star illuminates it cannot be seen, and the shot lingers for several seconds contemplatively.

Old, Raspy Narrator says, "Valincourt."

Valincourt's horizon becomes abruptly bathed in light, showing off a sickly-looking world with tarnished, scarred continents divided by wide seas. The shot focuses upon the center-most continent visible, a jagged landmass with evidence of verdant lands in the middle, surrounded on all sides by barren wastelands and desert.

Narrator says, "Once a proud world, now reduced to little more than those strong enough to be consumed by petty ambitions. To rule over a ruined rock."

The shot zooms in further upon that stretch of green valleys, mountains and lakes. A subtitle reads 'UNURA.'

Narrator says, "Only where it yet remains lush and green do they dare impress their will upon those weaker than themselves. Kingdoms of men and those who were once men, eking out an existence of hardship and scavenging. Where thousands perish in gambits for dominance, on the battlefield and in the shadowed back rooms alike."

A final panning shot of the landscape, followed by a quick zoom in - all the way down to the planet's surface to a deceptively peaceful scene. Rolling green hills, a creak, strange birds chirping their songs. The shot settles upon a single flower in the foreground, gently waving in the wind.

Narrator says, "... all in their efforts to become the true king of Valincourt."

A heavily plated boot crashes down on the flower, crushing it as its owner continues on, unnoticing. He's joined by countless other soldiers, the pounding noise of moving wooden carts, horses and marching men filling the air. The scene pans up to a shot of a wide army moving through a valley, surrounded by hills and inclines on all sides.

The soldiers are all armored in tabards displaying a red circle with a black star within, carrying a wide assortment of deadly arms. They're grim faced, with few engaging in any small talk with their comrades, their undisciplined eyes occasionally flitting to nasty looking soldiers wearing ornate uniforms in their ranks.

They march for another minute or so of various shots upon them before they start to come to a halt for rest. Just as they begin to, however, a sudden shrill whistle sounds out as a hail of crossbow bolts and arrows begin to rain down upon them. Those with shields raise them up to protect themselves while those without seek cover or perish, punctured to death. It's utter calamity as they struggle to reform. A tense, drum-heavy beat begins to play.

Just in time for another whistle that heralds a pounding charge of men from the hills, all triumphantly hooting battle cries, all wearing blue and white uniforms that contrast with their enemy's black and red. A frantic melee is joined, men stabbing, crushing and grappling with one another. Throats are slit, skulls are caved in, limbs torn off in a bloodbath.

The scene smash-cuts abruptly from the carnage to a pair of men rushing down the hill; they have a startling resemblence to one another, obviously familial. Covered in armor and pot-kettle helmets, it's hard to make out their builds save for their grimacing, if handsome expressions. Together, they run down to join the rest of their ambushing comrades.

They quickly find the fight they're looking for as a group of enemy soldiers bear down on them with maces and swords. The two brothers fight side by side with excellent blade work, cutting down their foes as they advance, shouting encouragement to the other.

All seems to be going well; but as the battle continues, fewer and fewer of the brother's comrades are visible. They look baffled, realizing that the enemy have mostly fought off the ambush and now have them surrounded along with a small group of friendly soldiers. Clearly they under-estimated the enemy numbers. All seems lost as the black-and-red soldiers prepare to finish them off, but...

Enemy Soldier says, "Give up if you value your lives, Wrento scum!"

The blue-and-white soldiers make a try at breaking out, only to have most of their number cut down for the attempt. The rest, the two brothers included, can do nothing but surrender, wary-featured and grimacing as they contemplate their fates, their weapons tossed to the ground, enemy soldiers swarming over them like vultures.

What follows is a slow montage of shots, of our heroes marching in rags, their uniforms faded by dust and dirt, ever-onwards whilst flanked by sneering foes. Together, they are escorted and pushed away with a small squad, back the way the enemy army came. The shot follows them until it pans back to the valley, to the army continuing its march. Countless corpses are left behind to rot in the sun, birds wasting little time swooping down to enjoy their feast; whether they are in red or white makes little different.

Quietly, a new musical piece begins to build up, solemn and morose at first as lingering shots play upon the battlefield, swelling as the camera begins to drift upwards into a more dramatic rendition using the same motifs; from this angle, the valley almost looks peaceful again. The logo of an orb with a sword through the center flashes onto the screen followed by the words, 'THE LAST KINGS OF VALINCORT'.

The scene fades for commercial.

Scene Two

The scene abruptly returns. A naked woman is lying on her back on full display. Red-headed and full-bodied, the camera settles on this vision for the time being. Judging by the way she's grasping the sheets beneath her, she's rather obviously post-coitus.

Woman says, "Mhrmm..."

Off-screen voice says, "You seemed tense in there, my lady. I trust all is well now?"

The woman rolls her eyes and tosses a pillow off-screen, smirking good-naturedly. "You rake."

The camera pans out, bringing a distinguished looking gentleman into the foreground, busily adjusting his tunic. He's got slicked black and gray hair and wrinkles that speak of some middle age, but he's undeniably handsome in a graceful way that few men manage as they grow older. He's smirking towards the camera.

Man says, "Guilty."

Woman pouts, watching him dress. "My husband won't return for another..." She looks at a nearby window, judging the time. "... hour?"

Man says, "Regardless. I am needed elsewhere."

The woman scowls, sinking her head back on a pillow. "You /are/ a rake. What can possibly be more pressing?"

Man says, "Your king's council, of course. Unless you mean to imply that Lora's high-diplomat should not attend?"

The woman squints at the ceiling. "That won't be for another three hours, Hemarc."

Hemarc grunts, finishing dressing. "There's many things I must do to prepare. I should have started sooner, but I couldn't simply leave a woman so... nakedly yearning for a proper man's touch un-"

Woman giggles saucily. "Oh, stop it. As if my husband would truly care."

Hemarc says, "You can inform him if you so wish, Felice."

Hemarc moves for the door, off-screen.

Felice says, "Wait! Can... can we meet again soon?"

The camera switches to another close-up of Hemarc, half-turning and smirking back at the bed. Everything about his expression all but screams suave callousness.

Hemarc says, "We'll see."

Hemarc leaves the room, not giving Felice a chance to reply. The camera pans out from the interior of the room he's in, revealing a wide shot of a bustling city beneath an impressive castle. The sub-title 'WAERLDEN, WRENTO' shows after a moment before fading. The camera continues to pan about, showing off the medieval city before it pans back towards the castle - and Hemarc, now hooded and departing through the gates. A pair of guards wearing foreign colors make to follow him, only to be waved off dismissively.

The camera follows Hemarc through the street, showing a wide variety of pale-skinned humans going about their business, occasionally joined by hideous looking green-skinned mutants, with mishapen limbs and claw-like hands. Hemarc seems disgusted by them, as are most of the normal humans milling about. Some, however, we see working side-by-side with the mutants as though they were perfectly normal.

Hemarc's slow march through the streets provide an exacting snap-shot look into this feudal life, until finally he enters into an alleyway, stepping down a flight of stairs into a cellar, the camera following him over-shoulder the whole time. The noise of the street dies as he goes lower, until it's finally muffled by a pair of closing doors behind him.

The camera switches to a shot of the room he's now in, occupied by a single other person sitting at a table. Situated on the table is a squat crate, the man's arms folded above it.

Man says, "I'll assume you weren't follow-"

Hemarc says, "Do not finish that sentence."

The man bows his head submissively, licking his lips. "Right. So. I..."

Hemarc walks over to the table, placing his hands on the crate. Music begins, a slow and tense beat, heavy on strings, clearly ominous.

Hemarc says, "You have what I need."

The man gulps, nodding as he lifts the crate's lid up. He and Hemarc both loom over the thing, the camera now oriented from the crate and looking up at the two men. Hemarc stares briefly for a few seconds before nodding and leaning back out of sight.

Hemarc says, "Very good."

Man says, "Wasn't easy to get, so let's discuss-"

There's a sudden quiet noise, like a device being activated, followed by a crackling hiss. The man exclaims in alarm, only to be cut off by a 'whirring' sound as his throat is audibly cut.

The camera pans back slowly out of the crate, revealing Hemarc holding a strange device in his hand; a hilt with a short blue beam coming out of it. He depresses a button, turning it off, and then turns back to the crate. The camera turns, showing a large, slender device bristling with wires, panels and faded insignia covering it.

Hemarc says, "Very good, indeed."

The camera pulls back the way it came, nestling into the crate once more, just in time for Hemarc to lean back over with the crate lid, a sinister smile on his lips.

Hemarc says, "Only the finest death for a king."

The lid is slid back on, and the camera likewise cuts to black.



Scene Three

The screen fades in to an entirely new scene, this one set within a wide court room; though its pillars are marble and its ceiling tall, there's a certain understated veneer to this place, as if the aesthetics weren't as important as the inhabitants within. The camera pans within slowly, as if it were attached to someone glacially approaching the throne to beg of some boon. Shafts of light shine in through multiple unseen windows. Slow, thoughtful orchestral music plays to set a mood of intrigue.

The room seems to be full of courtiers - among them Hemarc, for the eagle-eyed viewers - making their way out through a variety of guarded side entrances, eventually leaving a trio of men by the throne itself. Seated upon it is a clearly tall and impressive man, with a full beard and a barrel-chested physique. His robes are blue and white, similar to the soldiers from the opening scene, and upon his head of full, flowing black hair is a squat, humble crown.

His two comrades are two very different people; one is stocky, with hawkish features on his angular, slightly sneering face, clad in a noble's attire. The other, by contrast, could not be more different; with sickly green skin and covered in bandages and plain brown robes, the man is clearly a mutant. Judging by his expression, though, hideous though it may be, he appears to be something of an intellectual; his yellow eyes carry a glint of canny intellect.

The standing, normal man speaks first, his accent prim and proper, if hardened. "Shall we resume our previous discussion?"

The king raises a meaty hand with an irritated grunt. "Yes, Philups."

Philups gives the mutant a quick look before returning his attention to the king. "Our levies are striking the Sodonese forces wherever they march, but I've been getting fewer and fewer encouraging reports from field commanders. Most of our ambushes dissolve the moment they bring their numbers to bear."

The king says, "That is because we are wasting our time with tactics fit for cowards."

The mutant muses, "Tradition /does/ dictate differently, doesn't it?"

The king says, "Of traditions worth preserving, our honor is at the forefront. If we fight like dishonorable curs, we'll die as such."

Philups clears his throat. "King Duast, I feel as if you are being... selective, if you might permit me."

King Duast gives him a dark look. "Not selective. Rational. Dishonor aside, this piece-meal trickling of soldiers against their anvil will only bleed us dry. We must meet them in an open battle, upon our terms."

Philups sighs. "We lack the soldiers for this, my liege."

King Duast looks to the mutant, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "No. No, we do not."

Philups stiffens, following the look to the impassive mutant. "My king, you know as well as I that this fancy with the mutant populace will only anger my fellow lords. Tradition demands-"

King Duast interrupts him with an irritated noise, a hand cutting through the air decisively. "The same tradition you and your fellow lords deemed unimportant enough to change our battle tactics? Do not speak to me of tradition, Philups. Leave me."

Philups scowls privately, looking between King Duast and the mutant for a moment before bowing and stalking off.

The mutant says, "He's not wrong."

King Duast sighs heavily. "I know, Sets. But this, I feel, is the moment this nation has been waiting for. The catalyst for change - to incorporate your kind fully as soldiers. Only together can we beat back these Sodon dogs."

Sets makes a thoughtful noise. "You have already paid me back well in kind, you realize."

King Duast snorts in amusement. "For saving my life? It's a debt I will ever owe, old friend. Do not mistake this for currying your favor - you serve at my behest."

Sets says, "And gladly so. Yet I would be a poor friend if I did not give my honest thoughts."

King Duast rises from his throne, staring up at the ceiling for a few seconds. The camera pans up with him, showcasing a previously unseen work of art painted there upon the curved ceiling - it seems to be a group of men and women standing in the foreground, looking upon a slender black oblong shape hanging in the sky. Some of those painted seem to be kneeling.

King Duast looks back down to Sets, walking towards the camera again. "We shall see what the council says tonight. Come."

The camera cuts as his blue and white robes seem to collide with the camera.


Scene Four

The scene returns to an empty hall, illuminated only by pale moonlight and candleabras. A slow, humming theme begins to play, a tense and building piece that promises tension. Just as the theme hits its first dynamic note, a dark-robed figure appears from off camera into the foreground, striding silently down the way.

They move like a shade, moving with efficient purpose and economy of movement, gloved fingers constantly writhing at their sides as if expecting to need to use them soon. The camera starts to follow over their shoulder as they come before a door, a quick manipulation of the handle proving it to be locked. With a flick of their wrist, a lockpick appears in hand, slid into the lock as they kneel.

For a short time, the only sound is the soft clicking of tumblers, the music transitioning into a persistant, tense hum. It ends abruptly when the figure glances up at a sound from down the way - he's revealed to be Hemarc. His gray eyes flit about warily a few seconds before he kneels and works faster upon the lock, the music returning with more palpable tension than before.

Finally the lock is heard moving out of place; Hemarc makes a pleased noise and stands, twisting the handle and only getting half-way inside before a voice interrupts him.

Off-screen voice says, "And what are you doing there?"

Hemarc pauses, closing the door again as though it were an innocent mistake. He looks aside, the camera swiveling to reveal a fresh-faced guard standing there, a hand on the hilt of his blade.

Hemarc smiles and lowers his hood, turning to face the guard. His expression is a mask of apologetic innocence projected somehow upon a hardened, middle-aged man.

Guard recoils a little in surprise. "High Diplomat?"

Hemarc laughs quietly. "I see you study faces, too. Is there a problem?"

Guard hesitates, looking between Hemarc and the door. "I... yes, High Diplomat. I don't see what business you'd have below the council chamber."

Hemarc tilts his head. The camera pans down to his waist as a hand drifts there, where the subtle outline of a dagger is visible. "Well... it /is/ quite subtle down here."

Guard clicks his tongue, unimpressed. "Sorta the problem, sir."

Hemarc says, "Subtle enough for a private rendezvous, for example."

Guard inhales stiffly, seeming to view this situation in a slightly new light as he smiles in slow amusement. "I, eh... don't suppose I could maybe verify that right quick?"

Hemarc smirks. "She's expecting me, not you."

Guard walks over, smiling more broadly now with the air of a man who has dirt over someone very influential. "I'll just take a quick peek, eh?"

Hemarc considers and steps aside, hesitantly pointing the way. The guard walks past him and into the room just as Hemarc gets a severely deadpan expression, pulling his dagger out and following him in. The music pauses.

The camera smash-cuts into the room, where Hemarc is busy arranging the guard's corpse into an out of the way corner with the music picking up where it left off. Stepping over the legs, he moves over to a familiar looking crate situated in the center of the chamber, which has a low-ceiling and is covered in visible eaves and dust. Squatting over it, he takes the lid off as the camera pans over his shoulder again at the device inside.

Hemarc stares at it for a few moments, an expression of rare uncertainty evident on his face. Soon he's reaching into an unseen pocket and looking over a scrap of paper, his eyes double-checking for instructions. Satisfied, he crumples it up again and reaches inside, starting to manipulate a few of the wires.

The shot lingers on the device now - it's clearly some sort of advanced technology that clashes deeply with the environment and setting, and Hemarc treats it with careful respect. He twists a dial, finally, and the device seems to pulse for a moment, emitting a quiet hum that remains persistent. Hemarc stands, looking nervous, but satisfied with his work. A creeping smirk, never far from his lips, slowly emerges.

Hemarc whispers, "Long live the king." He wastes no time turning to the door off-screen, and only the sound of the door opening and being jammed locked is heard as the camera again lingers on the device, a blueish glow illuminating it. It's on this image that the shot fades to black.