|𝙵𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝟷𝟷𝚡|
There's a war in London. No one knows how it started, but those caught in the fray can either struggle or thrive due to the nation-wide influence of two formidable factions: the Crimson Syndicate and the Brotherhood of the...
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┏━━━༻✿༺━━━┓
𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚡
┗━━━༻✿༺━━━┛
𝘕𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 4𝘵𝘩, 𝘔𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺
The wind was as cold as it was harsh.
Sudden drops in temperatures forced everyone in London to adopt a second or third layer. Even still, dozens of people sat outside, listening to the Verita Aser Queen give a sermon-like speech. The chill gifted her nose and cheeks a reddish-pink colour without the need for blush. Unlike her black-cloaked audience, she wore an ebony bustier underneath a crisp white suit. Her short, curly hair was nearly as light as the snow that would soon blanket London.
Those in chairs exhaled miniature clouds and rubbed their hands together fervently, whether they had gloves or not made no difference. The chill was creeping up on everyone who had been there for a significant amount of time. There were no fingers that weren't as cold as the deceased the crowd was commemorating.
Lennox was one of the few who stood around the grave, watching as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Among the small number of standees, the Queen rattled off about Wade's accomplishments and what a loss it was for the Brotherhood to suffer his permanent absence. She blended into the fog, so much so that one couldn't tell where she ended nor where the murk began. The effect was akin to that of her words.
"Despite this tragic setback, the brotherhood will tread on, revitalised by Commander Carson's commitment to the cause. He, and many before him, have paved the road we are walking now. This funeral is not the beckoning of death, but the gentle hand of hope that urges us to celebrate all that the deceased have fought for and accomplished. Not just now, but often will we recognise these brave soldiers. They have given their lives to make this world a better place, and so will we, given time."
Amid her speech, the Queen even shed a single tear. "As the Commander begins his journey to the beyond, we begin our twentieth winter together. Should we embrace this winter with the same dedication that the Commander did, I anticipate this war ending before the new year is upon us!"
Cheers arose, and a sense of relief flooded the spectators. They no longer were demoralised from the death of their leading officer but instead, empowered by the promise of a London without war.
The florist, on the other hand, felt nothing.
He had never loved his father, nor had his father ever loved him. Lennox had only endured. Endured his presence, his tyranny and his cruelty year after year. And for what? He had only wished for his father's downfall. Now that it had come, he felt no satisfaction. No closure. He still had questions he wanted answered.
