High above the endless, senseless carnage of the Central Plains, veiled entirely from the bloody reality of the world below by impenetrable, Heaven-grade cloaking arrays, the luxurious master suite of the Flying Ship was a sanctuary of decadent, unhurried indulgence.
Alaric reclined comfortably upon a massive, silk-draped lounger. The plush velvet cushions absorbed his weight as he stared out the reinforced, one-way crystal window, his long fingers idly tracing the gold-rimmed edge of a crystal wine glass filled with deep, ruby-red vintage from the Snow Moon cellars.
He had observed the slaughter for over two and a half months. The initial, sadistic amusement of watching two 'Sons of Destiny' hurl their armies against one another had slowly faded, replaced by the cold, pragmatic calculation of a grandmaster evaluating the remaining pieces on a heavily depleted chessboard.
