Master Scene
A scene without player characters, driven solely by the Game Master for narrative introduction.
In a room extravagant with luxurious decorations and resplendent furnishings, where spoils of war such as swords and crowns were ostentatiously displayed, sat an elderly man alone.
This room, which could easily appear overly lavish and, depending on the occupant, even tasteless, was centered around a magnificent desk carved from an ancient cedar plank, its presence embodying countless grandiose moments across hundreds of years. The desk itself seemed to challenge the stature and dignity of whoever dared to occupy the room.
However, the solemnity exuding from the elderly man seated in silence was not overshadowed by any of the room’s rich adornments. Rather than attempting to embellish his dignity with such opulence, his very presence highlighted the refinement and elegance of the finest furnishings.
His long black hair streaked with gray maintained its sheen despite his age, and his slim figure was not weak but wiry, like steel wire twisted tightly into fine density. He was dressed in regal robes of a deep purple hue forbidden to all but the Emperor himself.
His face, marked by sharp features reminiscent of a hawk, bore a pair of gray eyes that shone brightly with resolute will. His lips were tightly sealed, and between his brows lingered creases of habit that exuded an unbending air of authority, ensuring no trace of frailty from the elder ruler.
Opposite him stood a chair stuffed with cushions matching the color of his robes, its decoration rivaling even the desk. Seated upon it with unwavering posture, not leaning against its presumably comfortable backrest, he appeared less a human and more like a finely honed spear on display.
On his head rested the golden crown that symbolized imperial power, a man named Augustus Julius Ludwig Heinkel von Baden-Stuttgart.
Indeed, it was none other than the current ruler of the illustrious Threefold Empire of Rain, one of the Three Royal Bloodlines, August IV, the head of the Stuttgart house and the true sovereign of the Threefold Empire himself, the Dragon-Riding Emperor renowned for his courageous battles and his ability to inspire his allies fearlessly in the face of conflict.
His fame was so widespread that even while alive, numerous plays and poetry sessions were dedicated to singing his heroics, rivaling even the tales of the Black Flag Emperor for their number and grandeur.
Despite all this renown and power, his voice—often likened to the voice of dragons for its deep resonance and commanding authority—spoke heavily, breaking the solemn air that surrounded him.
“I must admit, I’ve grown quite weary of this role.”
“Oi, if you summoned us, you should at least offer some formalities first.”
The retort came from an aged werewolf, his dignified mane framing a visage etched with countless battle scars, his gray frame cloaked in royal purple regalia bearing the crest of the Great Wolf with the Crescent Moon. Though distinctly human in form, the werewolf was a markedly different being from the canine demons known as Dog Demons. His face, though twisted in disdain, could be described as exceptionally sharp and handsome in a manner far above his peers.
“My name is Daphne McConghaile von Grauflock, the current Lord of the Grauflock House, one of the Three Royal Bloodlines, and the Duke overseeing the central-northern and central-western regions of the empire. But here I am, speaking to you with the casual language of a drunken ruffian in a tavern.”
Such was the relationship between the two: they were not just comrades-in-arms but kin, as Daphne’s second wife was the sister of Emperor August IV, continuing a tradition that began when the second wife of the first Emperor Richard was a daughter of the Grauflock family.
“But I am fifty-seven this coming autumn. Surely you understand, this burden is becoming too heavy.”
“Isn’t it a bit premature to voice complaints like this?”
The reprimand came, not from someone older or more experienced, but from a voice youthful yet commanding. The audacity was evident as its owner perched unceremoniously on the edge of the Emperor’s desk, legs crossed insolently, and idly twirling his claw-like fingernails. Had this been any other nation—any other time—an act of such disrespect might warrant immediate execution, yet here the individual exuded an almost inhuman charisma, his beauty verging on the uncanny.
His silver mane etched itself in sharp contrast against the rich purples of his attire, complemented by a sophisticated silver walking stick tucked casually under his arm. After neatly arranging his long silver strands, the man identified as Martin Werner von Erlstraich—another of the three ruling lords—spoke with unapologetic hauteur.
“And you should still have another term, isn’t that right? You have plenty of time. I, myself, served through three consecutive terms.”
The reason Martin, the silver gentleman, felt such freedom to lounge on the Emperor’s desk was rooted in his historical service to the realm. Having overseen fifteen years per term, Erlstraich had commanded the executive desk for a continuous span of forty-five years, making it as much a part of him as his own identity.
For mortals and their limited lifespans, such a length of service would test their very resolve, but not for the Vampire Elder who bore no mark of mortality’s constraints.
“Indeed, how different we perceive time. Perhaps you might consider enduring a fourth term? Truly, a mere fifteen years passes quicker than a nap.”
The sharp retort came from Martin who, in defiance of the disgruntled stares of his companions, merely flicked away the shavings of his nails with an airy wave of his hand.
“And so, kindly address me as Master Martin or Professor as I have begged you countless times to do. Such unbecoming titles truly do not sit well.” His silver eyes glittered with apparent displeasure as he continued, “Have you forgotten entirely the lessons your mothers taught you?”
Uttering with mock deference yet underlying insult, the elder vampire lord turned his back, grumbling, “And I am not old, not yet. I am quite young in comparison.”
Perhaps in practical terms, given the existence of five-hundred-year-old vampires and even a millennium-old vampire who held a lofty noble position, his claim held a modicum of validity.
Regardless, these three were the stalwarts of the Threefold Empire, figures of great power, respected and influential across the lands. Those unaware of their close-knit relationships might mistake their current antics for a farcical play, enacted by impersonators of the esteemed aristocrats whose leadership graced the nation.
This exchange, however, played out earnestly within the walls of the imperial palace, undeniable and authentic.
“Geez, Gas. Complaining about exhaustion when you’ve been commissioning a new set of dragon saddle fittings from my craftsmen, and not just ceremonial armor either—word has it you want one that can hold plenty of cargo.”
Casually addressing the Emperor by his nickname, the werewolf cast a reproachful glance at the apparently energetic old man despite his claims of tiredness.
“Indeed, that is a gift. Not for private use, of course. Coincidence merely that the measurements might align with my beloved dragon, Durindana.”
With a perfectly straight face, the Emperor lied through his teeth, betraying not a hint of dissonance.
Famous as the Dragon-Riding Emperor was no mere title but the embodiment of numerous feats driving dragons known as subspecies across the battlefields since youth. And to this day, his bond with the dragons continued, his yearning and connection to the skies unbroken.
“From the rumors reaching my ears, isn’t it true that your new airship, Alexadrine, has also begun adopting systems that incorporate dragons?”
Martin mused aloud, referring to complaints heard from his contacts within the Magic Academy about the radical designs that had emerged.
“This is simply an experimental measure to enhance the airship’s survivability. We must not forget the tragedy of Creamhildt.”
Airships represented the pinnacle of the Threefold Empire’s magical and maritime prowess, a nascent revolution in transportation and military might. Despite being only decades in development, they already heralded a new era of expansion, a significant focus of the empire’s future strategy.
Yet the airships were fraught with challenges: unstable power outputs, the perilous nature of flight, and historical resistance from those who dominated the skies. Innovations, some bordering on the radical, were required to overcome these issues.
“In any case, why on earth do you insist on naming ships after your wives?”
“Do you not remember? How about this – the very same moment you forced the initiation of a new ship construction just after the near wreck of Creamhildt – that’s something I remember distinctly!”
“The technology of airships will revolutionize trade and military endeavors! It is no waste!! And as for the ship’s names, they were chosen by public vote!!”
The banter of these three supreme rulers of the Threefold Empire stretched for a full score of minutes, leaving listeners who might have witnessed their divine piety aghast, if not dead by apoplectic shock.
At last, the Emperor himself forcefully halted their banter, raising his voice with surprising vigor.
“I have reached my limit! I hereby wish to abdicate my throne!!”
In dramatic gesture, the Emperor cast aside the crown—a palpable symbol of imperial authority—causing any witness to doubt their standing between life and death, and rose sharply from his chair.
“I originally declined the second term! It was forced upon me by all of you! Now, take it back!! Any of you!”
“You’re out of your mind! I am already thirty-two, for your information!? At the human lifespan, that makes us equal!”
“And me! I cannot shoulder it! The constant wrangling with the Guilds is exhausting! I cannot afford to step away from the delicate balance of our economy—were that to falter, the aftermath would far surpass the devastation brought by the Black Flag Emperor’s defensive wars! Please reconsider! You, and only you, can maintain the current era of peace!”
“At this crucial moment, you dare play the king card! Then take the imperial command and step in as the Emperor!”
Their exchange, farcical and vulgar in nature, carried on unabated until their collective breaths grew labored.
It was only after quenching their thirst with a cup of water from a nearby pitcher, composing themselves to regain the semblance of dignity, did they reassemble as the esteemed leaders of the empire. Yet despite the serious nature of their gathered discussion, the reality was no more than a petty game of musical chairs – with an inverse rule where standing was the winning stance.
“Of late, I find my rest fitful, my mornings often marred by a heavy cough, and my energy easily depleted. These signs of physical decline affect my ability to perform as Emperor to my fullest.”
Recounting a litany of plausible justifications, August IV cleared his throat theatrically after resettling the crown with deliberate care. Yet Erlstraich, ever the perceptive vampire, noticed the subtle flicker of an advanced magical charm at work, perhaps adjusting the Emperor’s appearance to simulate these ailments. A country, indeed, where the highest forms of technology could be wielded toward such trivial ends.
“You’re the same Emperor who flew ahead of the royal guards on your dragon last year, threatening them with exhaustion.”
“And wasn’t he enthusiastically inspecting the new airship Alexadrine, only recently?”
The Emperor, adept at ignoring such pointed criticisms from his subordinates, directed a sidelong glance to the werewolf.
“Should the winds of war stir again, it would be most fitting for the house of Grauflock to ascend to the throne. Speaking of which, it has come to my attention the giants of the Great Spirit Peaks have grown restless.”
“Not happening. Honestly, fifteen years of rulership? The confidence for survival is nonexistent. Not to mention, my heir isn’t ready with sufficient experience…”
At this perfectly defensible excuse, the Emperor fell silent, the reality of his friend’s mortality pressing upon him. As the werewolf’s life span was significantly shorter than humans—a mere fifty years, rarely exceeding seventy—this age marked the time for leisurely preparation for retirement.
Thus the Emperor’s gaze shifted to the vampire, whose longevity and proven political acumen, honed over centuries of debate, rendered him the practical choice.
“Given the need for a stable foundation against potent enemies, Erlstraich Duke, it feels your time has come.”
The vampire averted his gaze, muttering, “Because I’m the professor…”
Yet the benefits of an immortal ruler were undeniable. Absent the frailties of age, they were far less likely to indulge in reckless decisions, crafting policies with the foresight and patience befitting long-term strategies. Erlstraich’s past stewardship of the empire’s financial framework during stable periods attested to their proficiency.
“Besides, with the realm stable, now might be the most fitting time. After all, the grand wars are already behind us.”
“Indeed, the Eastern Expedition was no trivial matter. Both of us were absent from the battlefield for two full years.”
“Two long years spent wrestling with logistics rather than the battlefield!” protested the vampire whose concerns were summarily dismissed. Their collusion seemed assured, fortified by the strategic alliances the houses of Baden and Grauflock enjoyed with the majority of Elector families – four of the most influential.
“Then perhaps the Crown Prince could take the throne? Surely, I would have no qualms continuing my support?”
Though not hereditary by strict tradition, the Crown Prince had historically taken the mantle under similar circumstances, offering a pragmatic succession. The Emperor’s response, however, was a heavy sigh.
“My unfortunate son has declared if the throne is forced upon him, he’d rather relocate to his wife’s country abroad and re-enter their house as a son-in-law…”
“That’s going to be quite the political mess. An additional principality sounds complicated.”
“Can such an arrangement even pass muster? Probably not. Especially given the complications of dissolution and remarriage – the gods and the clergy will have something to say about that.”
This was where deep affiliations came into play. Trusting in one another, the trio’s whispered concerns saturated the chamber, eventually fading into silence.
As the Emperor and werewolf began contemplating the necessary political maneuvering, the calculating mind of Erlstraich, ever the brilliant professor attained through his own merit rather than noble birthright, deduced a practical resolution.
“Got it! Then I’ll simply pass the mantle to my daughter.”
With a clear and apparently contented smile, this elder vampire announced his intent to bestow the supreme seat not upon another of his lineage, but rather to his daughter, barely forty in age—an offering as much symbolic as practical—ensuring the bloodline’s continued legacy.
