The scent of blood hangs in the air, but Eris barely notices as she sits at a polished table on an open plain, the scorched grass beneath her boots whispering in the wind. Delicate porcelain clinks softly as she lifts her teacup and takes a measured sip, legs crossed casually.
Across from her, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, sits a captain of one of Sylareth's strike squads. His armor is dented, his nose clearly broken, and a blazing bruise blooms across his cheek.
He tries to maintain posture, but his knees keep knocking under the table.
"Please," the captain gasps, sweat dripping down his temple. "We surrendered two hours! The fighting's over. There's no need to—"
From behind him, the sound of bones crunching cuts him off.
Eris doesn't flinch. She calmly lifts her eyes from her cup and glances behind him.
"Maribelle," she calls sweetly, "how many of the four hundred do you reckon you've… disciplined so far?"
