Preview of Chapter Eighteen - A Murder most Unwise

As the people from Earth - or we - call it, there were sweet peppers stuffed with creamy cheese which was oozing out, having been melted not long before. But in the Consilii Language, it was more or less - swoot proopo - ... there was also, on the grand table (but not the one where Dion and Bell sat - rather, it was the one two rooms away from the other) many other items - sageuses -, common bread, bannickses, sultræ (much like a salad, but made from the insides of an orc), red cheese, sap wine, drum wine (more like champagne, honestly, however containing pixie saliva, which for one is a popular culinary ingredient, and the inwards of a common human, all mixed together and added with the blood of one leprechaun), prumprum potatoes - pink -, boiled leg ham - leg'am - And many more fascinatingly drastic foods.

Dylan had left them, and Bentarch sat down in front of Dionarys, who was clad in a suit of gold twisted along the creamy tint of the fabric, with ruffles at the sleeves and neck line. Looking fondly over at the young, handsome man for what seemed like the first time, Bentarch took notice of the chiselled jawline, the high, defined cheekbones, the muscles taut through the cloth... and then he looked down at his plate, poured himself a glass of drum wine, drank, and bit into a slice of orc cheese.

"The prophecy... young Dion," he began, wiping his mouth. "It's here... the cathedral... manger... mill..." and then he ate some sultræ, poured more drum wine, drank, glanced up at the hot prince, looked down again... drank more... ate a bannickse... one, two, three saugeuses.... and continued. "I went there. The manger - where the eleventh god lay - is empty, there's a fire there - and the cathedral... sister Raāchelle, she is devastated, and brothers Oscar and Teddy are  flabbergasted. High Father Charlie, he too told he were scared of the red-hot burn... and they all had rushed to the well to pour buckets of water over the manger! Plus, the mill.... at the mill, High Father found a scroll of parchment. From the djinns. He broke the seal and opened it up, and there was a letter... war..." the Arch was breathless.

"War?" The prince looked down at the different types of bread, including dark - sourdough - pita - focaccia -... all of whose names in Consilii I won't talk of! And then, he got himself a piece of pumpernickel, scooping unto it jalapeño hommus - which, in the Magical language of the Consiles, was noini socrolle. There were also ,any different types of hommuses, including red pepper, green olive pesto, and coriander pesto. But he looked not at that - rather, he took a bite and drank some sap wine, then put down his glass, thinking wistfully of how goblets were thought "old fashioned", which was just why they had none in Tilla.

At that, the Arch drew out of his torn robes that same scroll of parchment, and passed it across the table to the prince who grasped it with fingers in hommus and flour.

Dearest High Father,
We, from the Land of Djinns, are writing this with the last bottle of ink we have left. Our village is in ruins; thatched huts burned, trees with shed leaves and shops free of food. Our nation is grouped together in the only hut that is still left standing, and all we have is bread and butter and flour! How are we to live?

So my nation declares war, against the whole of Tilla. If we win, then we get half of the gold stored in the Vaults at Tilla, so we can rebuild our Land on the King. Of course, we have thought of moving to the Second of the Sisters, but goblins live there - and that isn't no good place for us. Now, reply as swiftly as you may - if you agree, let us then have the first battle on the Quarter Tahme...

New King Dion looked rather nonplussed as he gazed at Bentarch, and now he bit into his lip so hard that soon he tasted blood. His hand flew to his side just so his fingers could coil about the hilt of the sharp pocket-knife, feeling the rough surface of the pommel, clearly cut of wood. A splinter dug into his finger and a squeal touched his lips. He was a coward... King Dion was a coward.

Ashamed, he swung his pocket knife in front of himself, slicing a loaf of "sourdough" bread, sópę, which till now had been sitting merely on his plate. Then he thrust the knife back into his belt, which was hidden underneath his rich robe; a belt strictly tied about the middle of the man, who wore leather shorts and a flannel shirt, which was quite torn due to the immense weight of the knife. "It's all stupid," he said, feeling his tooth, nails caked in blood.