[S] Plotting of the thorned council

He had grown, with the entirety of his marionette heart, to dislike the marks upon his face. Like bright-pink ivy, the scarring of flame's etching stretched down the left half of his expression, leaving his eye of grey regard; worthless in its function.

Still, as if any other day, he dressed himself quietly in his lonesome, of blue and black apparel that had been cut regally with gold-hem. Of course, he was no noble, and he sought not that type of power. Rather, he had been able to sate his appetite with a different type of game; one controlled by strings and lace hung from the heavens by his fingertips.

Stepping out into the halls of the bright-marbled palace that stood exposed to the midnight air, he took in a deep breath and settled his anxious heart. In the morningtime, the sun would bathe the white-walls of the architecture, and it would glow in all its brilliance to soothe his soul.

He had grown, with his heart of lace and machinery, to despise the cold ache of the midnight.

Yet still, every night he would awake, and make his way out into the garden in the center of the palace, and contemplate the glimmer of the starlight that blanketed the blankened sky above.

---

A man of antiquated apparel stepped out into the starred midnight, which had been painted carefully by one he considered a hero to his heart of boredom. In pearlescent white and glimmering gold, his cloak fluttered in the cold breeze as his black boots crunched away at the grass.

Then did the nobleman stand before a man with a trimmed black beard, and short hair that barely covered up the charred scarring that stretched down the left half of his pale expression. In an iron-wrought seat he sat softly, contemplating the sky which had only just made its first appearance; glimmering, bright, gorgeous in its portraiture.

"It's been some time, Mr. Yulier." The man spoke, his expression obscured by the shadow of midnight. "Although, perhaps not nearly enough."

Looking back toward the nobleman of pearl attire, Kitsch could see that the man, despite knowing of him in his entirety, held a calm and idle look upon his face.

"It has been, hasn't it...?" Kitsch smiled bright. "When we last met, you were but a child..."

"You say that as if it wasn't nearly fourty years ago."

There was silence for a moment, as if the two of them were at a stand-still, trying desperately to grasp hold of the conversation's control; as if it were nothing more than a game.

“So, then, what do you think of what I have offered unto you, Councilman Pietre?” Kitsch spoke with a softened smile.

“I think you wear a mask upon your face. You are deceitful; a liar, a fraud, and a puller of strings.” Pietre spoke with a furrowed gaze in turn, before leaning back in his seat. “Still, I think that makes you wholly interesting…”

Pietre thought for a moment, before letting a harsh sigh escape his lips.

“I know well of who I am, Mr. Yulier. My only interest is self-interest- my greed and my lust for a certain power. I know to myself that these are not flaws, but rather my purpose.” Pietre spoke in turn. “But then I wonder… why is it you’ve brought this offer to me…? My fellow councilmen may be far more well equipped to do such a thing, and above all, this plot of yours doesn’t seem to further my own self-interests.”

Kitsch simply shook his head in response.

“Your main purpose will be his destruction, Councilman.” Kitsch spoke softly. “I have heard well of your feats, of how you command narrative to keep the war efforts afloat. When I speak to the snakes, they in turn speak of ‘Vaar Pietre’ and his genius as a commander of fools.”

“You humour me, but my question still stands, on how I can weave this to benefit me?” Pietre asked with furrowed eyes. “You want me to play a role, when all I’ve ever done is set the stage for performance.”

“I do not think for a moment that you have no understanding of the actor’s part.” Kitsch laughed aloud. “You are a manipulator of the story, in the same way that I seek to be the story’s creator.”

And in turn, he spoke one more sentence amidst the still-howling wind.

“To be the enemy of the ‘Baron of Lilacs’, what could make for a more interesting story?”