The most gracious Emperor Tristan VII, ruler of Albion, electorate of Hannovia, Bavares and Wurten, lord of Leeds, holder of Camelot, alongside multiple other titles, was quite simply put, bored out of his mind. The court jester proved ineffective at raising his spirits, so he sent the man to his end, and his wailing left the chamber as he was dragged out. Silent, the rows of entertainers behind the jester contemplated their fates, and sighed out relief as the Emperor dismissed them, rising from his throne, and waving for his attendant. George came as quick as he could, holding a sheaf of paperwork and a goblet topped off with wine. The Emperor knocked the cup away, and walked past. The purple fluid seeped into the worn velvet floor, and George got to work cleaning it with a yelp of dismay.

"Leave it George, that's what cleaners are for." George obeyed, shaking all the while. "And I've told you before, I want everything tested, I wouldn't want to end up like Grandfather, poisoned by his own cabinet."

The Emperor's voice was snide and high, despite his attempts to lower it, and hearing the Emperor for hours on end was outright torture. Everything the young man did seemed deplorable. Even trained as a boy, he was incapable of walking upright, and always adopted a sort of slouch, though whether this was from some sort of inbreeding or not, it was the least of the Emperor's negative traits. However, there was no denying that Tristan VII was a charming fellow at times, when he kept his mouth shut and his resting face seemed welcoming and warm. Except, behind those eyes was a machination of dreadful proportions, a psychopath who took wives every year, the last one surviving for 3 months before he grew tired of her. This was the leader of an Empire that stretched from Albion to the bitter reaches of the Newland, from where George had received urgent news. When Tristan finally sat again, gorging himself unseemingly, George shuffled through and read out aloud the reports.

"Pirates in the Westerlies, hm?" the Emperor sniffed at his whiskey before downing it, "Deal with it George, I couldn't care about some boggy bastards across the Sea."

"But, Sir, they've been wrecking havoc among the merchants, if we let them grow, they'll-"

"I said, deal with it George!" his holiness banged upon the table, food flying in every direction, "Get some lowborn Captain to deal with it, I don't care! Do not dare disturb me again with these irrelevant news, or I will have you replaced, by god I will."

George inclined his head, and backed out of the dining hall. He sent an order through a waiting messenger, and satisfied, retired to his office, stopping an attendant on the way and spitting into the wine.

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Captain Edmund Slikehall had scars in every part of his body. Down his cheeks, arms and legs, he'd lost two fingers on his right hand and one eye failed to shut fully, he stank of damp wool and his appearance alone frightened many a fair maiden. But he was a Captain of the Royal Albionic Navy, and Bitterwind, equipped with 36 cannon and 90 crew from the dredges of society, was his child. The seas stretched out for miles, and not a sign of cloud to be seen, nor any pirates. That was disappointing, he was itching for a fight, and shooting seagulls became dull after a while. He needed to dock soon, several of the men were coming down with fever, and he would return without a pirate's head for the eighth day. They were sneaky alright, but he would find them in due time.

Around him, the crew looked as demoralized, no kills meant no pay, and alcohol could not soothe being poor. Each and every one of them was from a different part of the Empire, some from the docklands at Albion, others picked up from various colonial possessions, even two came from the far south, ebony warriors handling curved sabres with ruthless passion. One man, Joe O'Sully, had been a pirate, and was put in charge of finding his brethren, knowledgeable in the maritime traditions of his former comrades. He was an amiable and friendly sort, but never really bonded with any of his other crew. He sat apart from the rest of the workers, gnawing on a hard biscuit and staring blankly across the waters.

The Captain slid down from his post and approached the loner, whistling a merry sailor's tune as he did. Joe smiled wistfully at him as he approached, keeping a respectful distance.

"How you finding life on the Bitterwind, son?"

"Swell, Cap'n, she rides fast, she does."

Edmund chuckled, and slapped the mast.

"She does well enough, for a lass twenty years past." Edmund picked at a spot where a bullet had lodged in some past battle, "But I've noticed you've not really melded with the crew yet."

Joe, in response, stayed silent, going back to chewing the barely edible biscuit.

"I know it's hard having to turn against your old mates, Son." Edmund paused from scraping away the iron, "But you've sworn the Emperor's Oath, and you're of Albion now, remember that. Should you shirk your duties, I'll have ye whipped like any other on this ship."

Joe nodded, and sullenly, threw the rest of his biscuit overboard.

"Aye, I am of Albion, Cap'n."

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By late night, the feast was in full swing, with dancers frolicking to faster songs, and very few people remained sober. Even the dignified Lily had a blush appearing across her cheeks, all while Justus sipped in moderation. He was the King, and he needed to show himself restraint. A couple next to him made out in full public, blissfully unaware and quite frankly, uncaring of the rest of the known world. He quietly moved a tray out of the way as they rolled around, much to the amusement of onlookers. Such romantic ideals sickened him, and partially, he longed for his lost wife. Just the thought of her made him angry, and he quickly moved it out of thought, instead occupying himself with a mild conversation with the Duke of Priceham, who drawled about the petty disputes and rivalries of his trigger-happy neighbour. Beside him, Lily hiccuped occasionally, staring blankly at the couple. Justus was getting anxious.

Where on earth is that dratted boy.

As Priceham protracted about the scandalous Countess of Loure, Justus excused himself, and headed for the privies, where more couples smooched at each other as if their lives existed on it. He noted with distaste as he recognized unfaithful husbands and wives. Even there, his guards stood by, muskets grounded, and he chortled.

"Commander, you may leave, unless I trust you'd like to see the royal highness performing his royal duties."

Guard Commander Adolf left with his men promptly, turning a shade of pink.

A few more hours is all.

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Gridion spluttered as he half-angrily, half-nervously scolded Frederick, who sat like a child on a stool, a child resplendent in a gilt officer's dress overlaid with an infantry greatcoat, the latter having seen a campaign of winter, with what few broken medals he possessed pinned against his chest, and his saber was sharpened hastily by the Regiment's blacksmith, it's scabbard polished to a acceptable degree. Erwin and Trinity watched in contempt, whilst Gunther had a sudden interest in the length of his nails, jumping as Gridion yelled suddenly.

"We searched half the town for you!" Gridion flailed with his arms, "1000 soldiers isn't exactly incognito, some of our boys ran into a scuffle with the garrison! It wasn't pretty, I tell you!"

"They did what?"

"A couple of our lads, they bumped into a patrol of the local Albions."

"And so, the scuffle, who won that? Our boys or those bastards?"

"Well, the "bastards" pulled back after a while, but-"

"Issue every man a silver from the Regimental Treasury."

Gridion seemed as if he would burst from indignation.

"You what?"

"A silver, per man."

Gridion opened his mouth to speak again, but could only sigh, writing out the order and sending it along. Outside, they heard a great cheer. Frederick laughed, and stood.

"So, gentlemen, I've learnt my lesson, I shan't do it again. Shall we?"

"Sir, we look like vagabonds In these uniforms." Gunther said, brushing down what appeared like a spot of blood. "And they asked for no weapons in the Palace."

"Don't worry," Frederick pinned a rose under Gunther's lapel, "We've the tactical advantage, good Sir."

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Everything appeared as if it were spiraling. Several times, Lily withheld the urge to expel the contents of her uneasy stomach onto the floor, and every passing moment was becoming more of an agony. She had went on a spirited rant to the King about Frederick, drinking so much to quell her feelings, but it all came out regardless. It was an embarrassing moment, but fortunately only the King seemed to listen, everyone else was as wasted as herself.

Did silk ever feel this soft?

She touched a hand to her dress, smooth, unbroken and pure.

Will Frederick feel this warmth? Ever?

That idiot. Even thinking of him brought tears to her eyes. So many different versions of the boy came to mind. A pompous, unsullied Prince all the way to a maimed veteran of war, soulless eyes and grim outlook on life, ugly in not only looks but with a rotten soul. Either way, she would welcome him. She would wait for him.

Except he's never coming back, is he?

She sobbed into a nearby pillow, tears forming a river across the gentle plains.

I miss him.