The Caïssan Stratagem

|| - Prologue - ||

The man leaned back in his chair, tapping his finger against his chin as he sank into a deep and contemplative state. His gaze migrated toward the table before him and its vast array of dark and shadowed figures. Some were curved, some were sharply angled, and some were a mix of the both, but the differences were various.

The darkness of the room, however, would not have been so much as to obscure them from view if not for the man across from him blocking the path of the light. His eyes shifted focus as he, without moving his head, lifted them to meet those of the aforementioned individual. They stared at each other for just below the margin of an uncomfortable length of time before the first man broke from his stillness and leaned forward.

"This is a war you cannot win," the man said, his expression unemotive, but his eyes seeming to emit a brightness that may have demonstrated enjoyment or anticipation.

The second man was notably younger than the first -- maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. His posture was tilted forward, with his elbows rested on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. His expression seemed nothing more than tired at a first glance, but closer examination might have revealed that there was an unnatural desperation running through his mind. As if the stakes of the choice before him were high; high enough to drive him to an intense fear of loss.

This impression may also have been implied by the bead of sweat he tried to wipe from his brow with his thumb, or the slight purse of his lips that may have indicated how he was biting the inside of his cheek. It may all have had something to do with the piece of paper resting a mere two feet away, on the right side of the table. His eyes flitted over to the signature space at the bottom, and the familiar name that filled it. One he was now quite regretting putting there.

The first man eyed the second carefully, taking in the sorry sight. The man opposite him did not appear to be very skilled at hiding his fear. And where there was fear, the first man knew there was opportunity.

He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands, with the exception of his index fingers which he held to his mouth. "I'll tell you what," he said. "Concede now, and we can skip the theatrics. We can forget the contract. Your people will be treated well."

The second man looked up sharply, his expression tightening as if he were clenching his jaw. "You'll treat them well, you say?" He shook his head, a dissonant clash of amusement and regret overtaking his sense of terror. "No, my friend. This is all or nothing. You've started this war, and I'm going to end it."

The first man scoffed, returning once more to a reclining position. He traced his finger along the rim of the glass resting on the arm of his chair; a glass that was, by now, nearly empty. This seemed to be a signal for one of his finely dressed people to pour them both some more. "In that case," he chuckled, the dull light in his eyes catching fire, "have another drink. I have a feeling it is going to be a long night."