act41side

We shall retain a warm flame.

As such, I, Loughshinny Dublinn, the last descendent of the Taran Dracos...

'I shall light this fire symbolizing new life. May it guide the way for all, whether living or departed.'

'Enclosed you will find templates for nomadic city immigration forms.'

Signed... 'The Kingdom of Tara'.

This is... This is treason.

The King of Tara has long been one of the titles of the Victorian emperor. Nothing in this letter denies it.

To avoid conflict, the Red Dragon has even indefinitely delayed the 'coronation' so many are looking forward to.

But in reality...

In reality, the indecisive claimant, the corrupt oligarchs, the blockading army, and the flames of dissent... all these issues have been put to rest.

For the first time in centuries, they proudly tell a new legend of a King Gaeil.

In the short term, the unrest has indeed been contained within Wellington's domain. With time, however, it can become a greater threat than any insurrection.

Tara must not be allowed to secede from Victoria.

As long as Wellington doesn't take his entire territory away on a nomadic city, the other dukes and I will continue negotiating with him.

Yes, ma'am. I'll draft some long terms plans regarding that.

Phew... It's finally over...

Well done. Well done indeed.

Thank you.

So what was it you wanted to say about Eblana before the ceremony?

We never found her body. If she somehow survived, I worry that someday...

Someday a completely different story will be told about the resurrection of the Red Dragon.

What story? That it was no miracle, but the assassination of one dragon by another?

Worse than that.

I see. You're afraid that Eblana will return and paint the whole thing as a conspiracy I orchestrated.

Our position is not unassailable.

We both know that her body disappeared earlier that night, after you killed her the first time. What I dragged through the streets wasn't her body, but an empty coffin.

I know.

I also know that it was I who used the last spark of fire she left in her spear to ignite the coffin.

It was I who left the city to parlay with Wellington, laying out our plans in exchange for him delaying military action while they played out.

It was I who walked into the fire the people had returned to Eblana, I who quenched and replaced the fire of death with the fire of life, and I who walked out of the fire in the end.

We've known all this since that day on the balcony of Na Saoirsí's citadel.

Eblana had left us a puzzle with no solution. The only way out was a miracle.

A miracle we scripted and directed.

If anything, the true miracle was the wakemen returning to the city.

If Eblana hadn't awakened the Exiled King, if Brigid hadn't delivered that message centuries overdue, if Moran hadn't persuaded them...

With just the two of us, that miracle could never have occurred.

So, what is there to fear at this point?

Eblana has cut off any path leading away from the throne. All I can do is devote the rest of my days to Tara.

And patiently await my judgment in some unknowable future.

Nemos was dragging an empty coffin?! Loughshinny was planning to 'resurrect the dragon' the moment she first killed you?

You're lying! You—

I know! It was Wellington! He found a conscience and lifted the blockade on his own!

You just won't give up, will you?

The Iron Duke? With a conscience? Hilarious.

You promised him that only good could come of your scheming!

All I promised him on the Gastrell was that I could change the direction of Tara, so long as Loughshinny was willing to return.

The Red Dragon who breathes flames of death, the spectre force with its dead soldiers, Dublinn with its blood-stained hands... everything was fated to sink into darkness while the Tarans united under the banner of the one and only Red Dragon.

Of course, His Grace was unaware that everyone in Na Saoirsí was meant to die for the plan, but I knew.

A city of doomed souls in exchange for Tara's lasting stability. Only good could come of it, no?

A shame that the duke isn't fond of Loughshinny. Things could have gone even more smoothly otherwise.

Sophistry! You lied to Wellington! Your plan was anything but harmless! And the people of Na Saoirsí <i>did</i> live!

To everyone's surprise.

In exchange for their lives, Loughshinny reached for the scepter of power that she detested so much. She chose to write a saga, a novel, a miracle that should have been beneath her noble dignity.

It was something only she could do... something that wouldn't have been possible even a few years ago. Would <i>you</i> have placed a miracle on the scales from the start?

What if Loughshinny had failed?!

Then you wouldn't be sitting here enjoying your drink.

I'm sure you've heard stories about what the Iron Duke does to whatever he considers an obstacle.

Every story begins with an inspiration. Memories rush into the writer's mind like seawater at high tide.

He struggles to break free, only to find himself powerless against the oncoming tide.

Argh—ugh! *cough* *cough*...

Red Dragon...

You knew! You knew from the beginning!

Y-You almost destroyed Na Saoirsí! You've made a mockery of all Tara!

Now, now, I must object to that. I simply fulfilled a promise. Is being true to one's word no longer a virtue?

Even you yourself admitted that this was a 'happy ending'.

No—never! This isn't how the story ends—

This isn't how my story's supposed to go!

The writer sees a sliver of white. He falls to his knees and crawls along the ground, trying to collect the scattered sheets of paper that had flown loose.

One, two, three... He clutches them in his hand along with his pen.

No, no, no—

What would you like to write? Let me help you.

No—

NOOOO!

The writer's shoulders tremble hysterically. Panicked, he begins to back off, until his back hits the rickety wall of the tavern.

Grabbing his pen like a spear, he begins to stab at the paper.

Muttering under his breath, he only manages to cover them with scattered ink blots. Soon, even his muttering loses coherence.

Gah... brr... argh... ugh! Ugh!

The commotion causes the drunken barkeep to come out from behind the counter and grab him by the collar.

Wha'cha babblin' about?

Argh! Eh... ugh!

Realizing that he can no longer form words, the writer looks desperately towards the woman watching him with disinterest.

He points at the woman's hands, then at his own mouth. The meaning was clear.

You've lost your words.

Perhaps you hit your head from excitement, or had a minor stroke.

Or perhaps it's because you just saw something you believed in so firmly, for so long, shatter to pieces.

The very thing that inspired you to join Dublinn, caused you to stay at the victory party, made you turn back to Na Saoirsí halfway...

But it's time to wake up.

With a trembling hand, the writer tries to write on his palm, but leaves only crooked, disjointed lines.

You wrote a story for Tara. A complete story, not a collection of fragments. It's a good one. I like it.

And I like it even more now that it belongs only to me, not to you.

Slán go fóill, 'Singer'. No, 'Writer'.

Slán go fóill, the last Dublinner.

I look forward to the stories you'll tell me when death reunites us.

With one last glance at The Writer, the woman tosses a few coins onto the table, and walks out of the tavern.

A memory comes back to The Writer.

It was the same look Eblana gave him that night, a year and a half ago, when he decided to delay his report after The Leader's shadow had already departed, in hopes of staying in both sides' good graces.

What should I call you, then?

Whatever you're thinking, I am only Necrass here.

Unless you, too, find a signed sheet of paper to hold no power whatsoever.

Operator Necrass.