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The sun blinds the kingdom of Litorum to the group of cloaked travellers slinking into the kingdom's walls.
It's a loud, festive day for those who care to celebrate. A crowd gathers at the castle, excited chatter rising to the high heavens, anticipation making the air buzz and dragging their attention away from the five strangers joining them. The largest of them disappears behind a cluster of buildings in a swirl of blue and crimson, gurgling like a hungry monster. One in a black cloak pulls his hood farther over his head and slips away through the outskirts of the horde. The remaining three adjust their leather capes, take each other's hands, and walk merrily into the chaos.
The castle is large enough to be visible even behind the milling crowd. Guards stand at either end of the entrance, turning away anyone who dares to create a fuss so close to whatever figurehead now resides inside. It's simultaneously unchanged and completely unrecognisable; the walls are the same stone as they were seven years ago, although decorated in folded banners and new emblems. A metal gate sits in the gap where there was once an open archway. Though the most notable change sits in the courtyard behind the gate, framed in magic fire, claiming the space as its own.
Overtaking the castle grounds like a parasitic beast sits a statue of the draconic Lathander.
He's deceptively beautiful—shiny and ornate like a ceremonial sword, each scale carved in impossibly meticulous detail, his horns curved in perfect symmetry. His serpentine form almost seems to dance through the air despite the unmistakable weight that tethers him to his gold-lined pedestal. Leather-like wings spread to their full extent like he could swoop down and take out the entire crowd, the very picture of strength and command, eyes carved in slits that seem to watch its observer's every move.
He's snarling. His claws are bared.
Some say it's a show of power. Others say intimidation. The latter group are scowled at by passing guards.
One in particular sighs as her gaze trails down the creature's winding neck, the flawless expanse of stone that serves more to dull him than to bring him to life. Her arms hang between the bars of the gate, not shaking them, just staking claim on her spot. Few would dare to mess with an orc of her size, anyway, but people tend to go wild for these sorts of ceremonies and she'd learnt her lesson a long time ago about not trying to start a scuffle with a Lathander fanatic.
"She would have been a proper lady by now," she muses, arms crossed as she squints at the castle doors like they'll unleash some monster as soon as they open.
Beside her, a dwarf tilts his head. "Who?"
"The princess. The little one."
"I reckon you mean queen," a human says mildly as he peaks over her muscled shoulder.
The orc shakes her head. "Too young to be a queen, that one. Never deserved it. Never deserved any of it."
A guard passes by on his patrol of the gate. His eyes catch hers.
The dwarf clears his throat and loudly declares, "Well, she's dead now, isn't she? No use in pitying a corpse. Better to focus on the present, eh?"
She rolls her eyes. "S'pose."
And he moves on without fanfare.
The human smacks her shoulder, ignoring her quiet, "Ow." "I thought you'd know better to talk like that where guards can hear you, idiot."
At her side, a man in a black hood curls his fist.
The calamity is no better at the back of the crowd, either. A leather-clad man holds tight to a younger girl's hand as they snake their way through the gaggle of townspeople, stepping on people's toes, whacking people with his tail and frantically apologising after himself. The girl is quiet as she follows, concealed by her cape and the plain mask over her eyes. Behind her, their companion slips carefully through the throng of people to tail them.
They come to a sharp stop as their lead smacks into the flank of a centaur. She turns around, unharmed, and meets the apprehensive gaze of a man shrouded in his hood's darkness.
"Excuse me," he says politely, smiling a tad awkwardly as he places a hand on the girl's shoulder. "My daughter here can't see, would it be okay if we just shuffled past?"
She smiles and steps aside. "Of course. Everyone should be able to see Lathander's glory up close."
He nods. "Couldn't agree more, stranger."
They hurry ahead with excited grins. Their friend follows behind them like a shadow.
The sun reaches its peak in the sky when the five figures finally coalesque, though despite their unconventional getups, they're hardly anything of note. A few paces away from them is a man wearing an imitation of Lathander's horns on his head carved from dragon's teeth, and a small group of guards quietly discuss amongst themselves whether that's appropriate for the occasion. A stone's throw from that is a young changeling trying to figure out how to make themself taller and failing horridly.
They melt into the crowd like shadows in shade, staring ahead at the statue obscuring the front of the castle.
"What a joke," one of the disguised figures grunt.
Another beside him gurgles. "Not a joke. Jokes are funny. This is sad."
It's almost quiet enough to slip under the cacophony of the crowd. But it reaches the keen ears of the dragonborn in front of them, one whose feet are aching from staying in place for so long, and immediately their attention spikes as another figure huffs out a laugh.
"Guess it's supposed to be sad, right?" he jokes, and the dragonborn's ear twitches. At his side, his daughter squeezes his hand. "Lathander's deathiversary? Sounds like something they'd be sad about."
"Then why does everyone seem so fucking happy?" his teammate remarks. "You'd think they were doing a bard performance or something. Seems inappropriate."
"Hardly the weirdest thing they've done." He shoots a pointed glance to the one in black.
He huffs. "Let it go, man."
"Hey, I'm just saying. I'm not the one who decided to follow these creeps."
The dragonborn grits their teeth and spins around. "Excuse you?"
The five all turn to meet the new voice, varying degrees of surprise on what little of their faces they can see. One has dual of peaks in his hood that indicate a pair of horns, and, judging by his faux-innocent expression, he seems to have been the one to have made that remark. "What?"
"What did you just say?" the dragonborn spits.
The man rolls his shoulder in a small shrug. "I said what I said, mate."
"How dare you?"
"Pretty easily, really."
Behind him, one of his friends snort, a gloved hand rising to muffle it. The girl's lip twitches.
The dragonborn deepens their scowl. "You have no place here if you don't plan on respecting Lathander's name. His death was unjust and cruel and—"
"You're celebrating it?"
"We're celebrating him." They point behind them to the towering statue of their god behind the castle gates. "After our royal family died, we found a new, glorious loyalty in him. We follow his light, now. We mourn his death and we await and pray for his—"
A disgusting babbling sound suddenly interrupts their spiel.
The horned man jumps and whirls around. The figure in the dark red cloak shuffles awkwardly while the one beside him—a half-elf, it seems, judging by the way his hood partially falls to reveal his ears as he shakes in laughter—quickly whips his head to the side and presses his lips into a firm line like he's trying desperately to find something else to focus on so he doesn't keel over. The culprit makes another grumble, quieter and sadder than the last.
"Dehydrated," he mutters. The other one beside him clasps a hand over his mouth, clearly hiding a grin.
The dragonborn's ears pin back. The faint smell of ash rises in front of their snout.
The horned one chuckles lightly. "Maybe this just isn't for us," he concedes, raising his hands in mock defense. He tosses a lazy glance to where his daughter stands, carefully neutral, expression hidden by her mask. "Maybe we should leave, eh? What do you say, darling?"
She pauses, her entire face and body crystallising. Then her head shifts to the side, lingers for a moment or two, and returns to give the man a small nod.
"Gotcha." He bows his head to the dragonborn. "Terribly sorry to have offended ya. We'll be on our way."
"You do that," they huff, smoke gathering at their flared nostrils.
The next time they blink, the non-believers have disappeared.
It's just as good, too. The dragonborn lets out an annoyed puff of air before turning around just in time to watch the beginnings of the ceremony.
Banners unfurl. Torches flare. Music rises as the doors of the castle begin to open behind the statue.
The crowd explodes.
It's the sort of excitement that could rattle the earth. Their cheers reach the clouds and beyond like the god himself is alive and roaring alongside them. A centaur stamps her hooves as she whoops and shouts. An orc covers her ears and winces.
The high priest soaks it all up with no small amount of satisfaction as he makes his way closer, treading slowly towards the lectern rising in front of Lathander's statue in a swirl of magic. His robes trail behind him in a river of pristine white, untouched by the dirt on the ground with a shimmer of a protective spell coating it. The noise only rises when he reaches the podium, as though the audience is trying to raise their voices to the sun itself.
He holds up a hand to silence the audience. It doesn't work immediately. He doesn't seem to mind.
Eons stretch before the ruckus even begins to die down, and he still soaks in the last few echoing cheers like he's the one worthy of celebration. The racket fizzles out in a slow, gradual whimper, and only when it falls completely pin-drop silent does he begin to speak.
"People of Litorum," he starts proudly.
He doesn't even get another word in before the crowd rises in shouts and gasps once more.
The high priest whirls around and pales to match his robes when his eyes land on the statue.
A tiefling stands proudly on the dragon's head, a foot propped up on one of his horns, a hand wrapped around the other. His hood has since fallen to his shoulders to uncover his face as he scans the crowd, no longer caring who can see him.
Following suit, a trail of purple smoke runs across the front of Lathander's statue, briefly snapping the audience out of their stupor. It sinks away into the ground to reveal just one of the remaining four figures: the girl in her old leather cloak, her hood discarded, her dark mask still obscuring her face. She looks tattered, dirty—common. The only thing separating her from any poor townsperson is her stance, strong and poised, like some imitation of a royal.
A handful of guards charge forward, the only ones who seem to be able to take their eyes off the tiefling for long enough to focus on the girl.
She turns to them with something like boredom. A whistle permeates the air.
In an instant, they fall to the ground without so much as a scream, a crossbow bolt embedded into each of their heads.
Nearby and invisible on a rooftop, a half-elf smirks.
"What is this?" the high priest demands, eyes stretched wide in terror as he hears the bodies hit the floor in a grotesque thump.
The tiefling blows a kiss down to him. He doesn't react.
Nobody can seem to look away from him, transfixed by his very presence, eyes wide and jaws slack. Even the guards are unmoving as though ensnared in place by the sand and grass. Some are reminded of a similar scene from seven years ago, a flaming tiefling stood atop a rooftop, horns ablaze, desperately asking if anyone had seen their runaway queen. He'd been frantic then, hands shaking, pinprick pupils searching the crowd for answers.
This one looks nothing like him, brows drawn together in a determined scowl, tail stilled, teeth bared.
"PEOPLE OF LITORUM," he bellows, smoke rising from his horns in a billowing cloud of black charcoal, "KNEEL FOR YOUR RIGHTFUL QUEEN!"
Below him, the girl throws her mask off like a curse.
The former queen's face meets the light.
She's almost unrecognisable; the last remnants of her youth have long since chipped away into a hardened glare and a scarred cheek. Her heavy cloak broadens her shoulders but the rest of her lean figure still explodes with a hidden power, something absent from the priest's trembling form. Her hand settles on her belt under the cloth and, despite the ragged fabric that conceals it, her gait promises something bloody as she steps towards him.
She pauses to face the crowd. For a moment, as she looks over her people, she looks every bit as regal as she did when she was clothed in a golden tiara and embroidered robes.
Some drop to the floor, heads bowed, weapons at the ready to fight for their queen. Others stare defiantly at the intruder.
Hidden among them, a human spins a carousel of pebbles around his fingertips, eyeing his first targets. Farther away, tucked into a water trough, tentacles writhe, ready to strike. The queen's four guardians are nowhere near each other yet they sense each other's presence like magic. None of them have been her citizens for seven years, but she's still their queen, and they plan to die like soldiers if they must.
"Your queen is alive," she says to the high priest in a barely concealed growl. He stumbles back as though facing down Lathander's wrathful snarl. "And I'm here to take back what was stolen from me."
Queen Ellorie Lusensa is eighteen years old, surrounded by allies, and ready to reclaim her throne.