Wednesday, August 17, 2011


The men I was sent to, who I'm to pretend I'm a friend to, Arcadians, have become genuinely beloved.
My smile cuts further inward than my split face to a lightless place tears are spilled.
I pat Ambassador Ilthua on the back and nod as he leaves, rod in hand.
He believes a treaty will be signed between his kind and mine for fewer trade and travel restrictions.
Truly, the army is already on its' way.
I swallow and hear the stomp of rows of sandled feet clomping down the street.
300,000 footmen march through the Temal Straights with archers, riders, and chariots besides.
They will accept no surrender. They will see no Arcadian survives.
After lunch I am to be attending a meeting of dignitaries discussing nothing in particular.
I've forgotten my stomach.
In a bejeweled hall I am the only flesh and blood man living and standing surrounded by specters.

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