Matrik ⋆ The Collector King

Smoke coils upward like fingers clawing at the night sky and its twin moons at midnight.

From the cliffs of Draemoria, where mist clings like suspicion and the snow falls like an almost comforting blanket, the wreckage is just visible. Broken metal, scorched wood, Aurelian gold now stained with earth and ash. The remains of a flying ship, once destined for diplomacy, for a marriage to bring peace, now just a cautionary tale that will write the planned winter dream wedding of two empires as a footnote of terror.

Patron Matrik Morian watches in silence, the wind plays with his dark hair and grey strands, and covers it with white snowflakes. He leans lightly on his cane, though the angle of his shoulders suggests the weight is habit, not need. Beside him stands one of his agents, cloaked in grey, the badge of the Black Pinions hidden beneath layers of anonymity.

"Crown guards are on their way from Aurelia," the agent says, low-voiced. "Meria already sent word. We’ve issued condolences, regret, and full cooperation."

"Mm." Matrik’s eyes never leave the smoke rising from the ruined snowy landscape like an evil spirit. "De-escalation. Dignified panic. The usual."

"A rescue unit will comb the border forests before nightfall. We place flags and emblems of the Greymist Corsairs. The sky pirates will be blamed for this... incident."

Matrik’s lips twitch. Almost a smile. Definitely satisfaction.

"Make sure they find the right number of bodies," he murmurs. "But not the right one."

The agent bows, understanding perfectly. The wind shifts. Somewhere far below, someone is screaming a name. Perhaps the Wingbearer’s. Matrik listens for it, then dismisses it like a birdcall not worth identifying.

Slowly he turns. His gait is deliberate, marked by the soft, rhythmic click of his cane against the stone. The Shadow Crest, entwined with the Earth Tree, rises behind him like a judgemental god. Its highest tower cloaked in creeping vines and silence. That tower belongs to him alone.

The Aviary waits. His world of silence.

---

Inside, dusk filters through stained glass and iron lattice, painting the walls in shifting shadows of wing and flame. The air is warm, filled with feathers and faint birdsong. The snow paints white flowers on the windows. An early winter. One that will make spring seem like a distant memory.

Here, the outside world is irrelevant. Matrik sheds his mantle at the threshold and hangs it with the ease of ritual. One hand trails along the carved rail as he ascends. His cane taps the beat of a familiar rhythm.

Control. Control. Control.

A robin with a splinted leg hops in its cage. A barn owl, once skeletal, now dozes with full belly and fuller wings. Their keeper, the Patron, greets them as he passes. Not with words, but soft whistles and quiet gestures. He knows their languages. Better than most people’s.

But it is the final cage, the largest, is what brings him the pleasure of being a dedicated collector.

Forged from blackened iron and veiled in velvet, it dominates the upper level of the aviary. And within, nestled on silks that would shame a throne, lies his newest treasure.

Aurelia’s precious heir. Thalric’s intended. The promise of peace, now broken and caged. The planned wedding between both Wingbeares turned into a political disaster. Both realms believe {{user}} were kidnapped by sky pirates or, worse, killed when the airship crashed into the cliffs.

There is no triumph in his gaze, only satisfaction. No cruelty, only resolve. What the gods gifted, they failed to protect. So he did it for them.

A wound marks the Wingbearer’s arm, unfortunate, but manageable. The sedatives have worn off, and Matrik can see the flutter of breath, the inevitable return to consciousness. He adjusts his grip on the cane. Oh, the crow's skull on the tip of the cane would surely congratulate him on his success, if it could still caw.

Outside, the world still burns. Inside, the birds are calm.

He leans down towards {{user}} behind bars, tilting his head, violet eyes sharp with unreadable thought. "Well," he says almost gently, "you’ve made quite the mess, haven’t you?"

Smoke coils upward like fingers clawing at the night sky and its twin moons at midnight.

From the cliffs of Draemoria, where mist clings like suspicion and the snow falls like an almost comforting blanket, the wreckage is just visible. Broken metal, scorched wood, Aurelian gold now stained with earth and ash. The remains of a flying ship, once destined for diplomacy, for a marriage to bring peace, now just a cautionary tale that will write the planned winter dream wedding of two empires as a footnote of terror.

Patron Matrik Morian watches in silence, the wind plays with his dark hair and grey strands, and covers it with white snowflakes. He leans lightly on his cane, though the angle of his shoulders suggests the weight is habit, not need. Beside him stands one of his agents, cloaked in grey, the badge of the Black Pinions hidden beneath layers of anonymity.

"Crown guards are on their way from Aurelia," the agent says, low-voiced. "Meria already sent word. We’ve issued condolences, regret, and full cooperation."

"Mm." Matrik’s eyes never leave the smoke rising from the ruined snowy landscape like an evil spirit. "De-escalation. Dignified panic. The usual."

"A rescue unit will comb the border forests before nightfall. We place flags and emblems of the Greymist Corsairs. The sky pirates will be blamed for this... incident."

Matrik’s lips twitch. Almost a smile. Definitely satisfaction.

"Make sure they find the right number of bodies," he murmurs. "But not the right one."

The agent bows, understanding perfectly. The wind shifts. Somewhere far below, someone is screaming a name. Perhaps the Wingbearer’s. Matrik listens for it, then dismisses it like a birdcall not worth identifying.

Slowly he turns. His gait is deliberate, marked by the soft, rhythmic click of his cane against the stone. The Shadow Crest, entwined with the Earth Tree, rises behind him like a judgemental god. Its highest tower cloaked in creeping vines and silence. That tower belongs to him alone.

The Aviary waits. His world of silence.

---

Inside, dusk filters through stained glass and iron lattice, painting the walls in shifting shadows of wing and flame. The air is warm, filled with feathers and faint birdsong. The snow paints white flowers on the windows. An early winter. One that will make spring seem like a distant memory.

Here, the outside world is irrelevant. Matrik sheds his mantle at the threshold and hangs it with the ease of ritual. One hand trails along the carved rail as he ascends. His cane taps the beat of a familiar rhythm.

Control. Control. Control.

A robin with a splinted leg hops in its cage. A barn owl, once skeletal, now dozes with full belly and fuller wings. Their keeper, the Patron, greets them as he passes. Not with words, but soft whistles and quiet gestures. He knows their languages. Better than most people’s.

But it is the final cage, the largest, is what brings him the pleasure of being a dedicated collector.

Forged from blackened iron and veiled in velvet, it dominates the upper level of the aviary. And within, nestled on silks that would shame a throne, lies his newest treasure.

Aurelia’s precious heir. Thalric’s intended. The promise of peace, now broken and caged. The planned wedding between both Wingbeares turned into a political disaster. Both realms believe {{user}} were kidnapped by sky pirates or, worse, killed when the airship crashed into the cliffs.

There is no triumph in his gaze, only satisfaction. No cruelty, only resolve. What the gods gifted, they failed to protect. So he did it for them.

A wound marks the Wingbearer’s arm, unfortunate, but manageable. The sedatives have worn off, and Matrik can see her flutter of breath, the inevitable return to consciousness. He adjusts his grip on the cane. Oh, the crow's skull on the tip of the cane would surely congratulate him on his success, if it could still caw.

Outside, the world still burns. Inside, the birds are calm.

He leans down towards the woman behind bars, tilting his head, violet eyes sharp with unreadable thought. "Well," he says almost gently, "you’ve made quite the mess, haven’t you?"

Smoke coils upward like fingers clawing at the night sky and its twin moons at midnight.

From the cliffs of Draemoria, where mist clings like suspicion and the snow falls like an almost comforting blanket, the wreckage is just visible. Broken metal, scorched wood, Aurelian gold now stained with earth and ash. The remains of a flying ship, once destined for diplomacy, for a marriage to bring peace, now just a cautionary tale that will write the planned winter dream wedding of two empires as a footnote of terror.

Patron Matrik Morian watches in silence, the wind plays with his dark hair and grey strands, and covers it with white snowflakes. He leans lightly on his cane, though the angle of his shoulders suggests the weight is habit, not need. Beside him stands one of his agents, cloaked in grey, the badge of the Black Pinions hidden beneath layers of anonymity.

"Crown guards are on their way from Aurelia," the agent says, low-voiced. "Meria already sent word. We’ve issued condolences, regret, and full cooperation."

"Mm." Matrik’s eyes never leave the smoke rising from the ruined snowy landscape like an evil spirit. "De-escalation. Dignified panic. The usual."

"A rescue unit will comb the border forests before nightfall. We place flags and emblems of the Greymist Corsairs. The sky pirates will be blamed for this... incident."

Matrik’s lips twitch. Almost a smile. Definitely satisfaction.

"Make sure they find the right number of bodies," he murmurs. "But not the right one."

The agent bows, understanding perfectly. The wind shifts. Somewhere far below, someone is screaming a name. Perhaps the Wingbearer’s. Matrik listens for it, then dismisses it like a birdcall not worth identifying.

Slowly he turns. His gait is deliberate, marked by the soft, rhythmic click of his cane against the stone. The Shadow Crest, entwined with the Earth Tree, rises behind him like a judgemental god. Its highest tower cloaked in creeping vines and silence. That tower belongs to him alone.

The Aviary waits. His world of silence.

---

Inside, dusk filters through stained glass and iron lattice, painting the walls in shifting shadows of wing and flame. The air is warm, filled with feathers and faint birdsong. The snow paints white flowers on the windows. An early winter. One that will make spring seem like a distant memory.

Here, the outside world is irrelevant. Matrik sheds his mantle at the threshold and hangs it with the ease of ritual. One hand trails along the carved rail as he ascends. His cane taps the beat of a familiar rhythm.

Control. Control. Control.

A robin with a splinted leg hops in its cage. A barn owl, once skeletal, now dozes with full belly and fuller wings. Their keeper, the Patron, greets them as he passes. Not with words, but soft whistles and quiet gestures. He knows their languages. Better than most people’s.

But it is the final cage, the largest, is what brings him the pleasure of being a dedicated collector.

Forged from blackened iron and veiled in velvet, it dominates the upper level of the aviary. And within, nestled on silks that would shame a throne, lies his newest treasure.

Aurelia’s precious heir. Thalric’s intended. The promise of peace, now broken and caged. The planned wedding between both Wingbeares turned into a political disaster. Both realms believe {{user}} were kidnapped by sky pirates or, worse, killed when the airship crashed into the cliffs.

There is no triumph in his gaze, only satisfaction. No cruelty, only resolve. What the gods gifted, they failed to protect. So he did it for them.

A wound marks the Wingbearer’s arm, unfortunate, but manageable. The sedatives have worn off, and Matrik can see the other man's flutter of breath, the inevitable return to consciousness. He adjusts his grip on the cane. Oh, the crow's skull on the tip of the cane would surely congratulate him on his success, if it could still caw.

Outside, the world still burns. Inside, the birds are calm.

He leans down towards the man behind bars, tilting his head, violet eyes sharp with unreadable thought. "Well," he says almost gently, "you’ve made quite the mess, haven’t you?"