"What a mess," Vranphile commented as he stepped inside Legislative Hall. Once beautifully decorated and tastefully furnished, it was now dark and arachaic in the settling gloom. The former Councilman kicked an overturned chair out of his way as he and his Daughters of Darkness made a beeline for the center of the room. He seemed to observe the destruction with more pride than disgust.
          It was hard to believe that just days before, this place had been the center of political activity for the majority of the free world. Now completely leveled, it held little purpose other then serving as a crude cemetary for those who had died in battle. Vranphile deliberately stepped over the remains of those who had fallen before, fully aware of his lack of respect. The frank truth was he didn't care.
          "Sir?" came Markie's voice, just behind him and to the left. He could hear her footfalls breaking the brittle bones of the corpses that littered the room. "What are we looking for, exactly?"
          Vranphile ignored her, instead turning in a complete circle to take in his surroundings more fully. "Just looking around.." He said finally, and his eyebrows crinkled together in evident frustration. He waved his hand vaguely to gather their attention, and shook his head. He seemed to collect himself. "Ransack the place," he commanded. "Take what you want. Just bring anything of informational value to me." He turned away from the group and stalked over to the entrance where they had came from, calling over his shoulder. "Jordan, come with me."
          Jordan obediently came forward, quickly ascending the steps to where her master was now standing. Michelle, who had already been awkward on her feet in the midst of all the chaos, suddenly lost her balance. She cried as she toppled, landing backwards on a table that collapsed beneath her added weight.
          Vranphile spared her one lazy glance, and for a moment his face was not concerned like she would have expected, but rather, frustrated and tired. "Stephanie." The frowning woman beside Michelle nodded once, tending to her fallen comrade. The monarch sighed in distaste.

---

          "Something's ailing you." It was not a question.
          "She was so promising, at first," Vranphile said suddenly, and the former general didn't have to think twice to know who he was referring to. "Unlike the others, she survived the treatments, which was a delight. But where I thought she had so much potential, I now realize that she was just as weak and pitiful as the others--a failure as an experiment that didn't have the dignity to die."
          Jordan didn't respond, instead marching after him wordlessly down the conquered ruins. The crumbled hallways were only vaguely familiar to her, and so she followed him the way that servants follow their master's every word: blindly and obediently. Vranphile spoke on the subject no further, and Jordan held no opinion.
          It was only twenty minutes later, standing in the centre of a rather eleborate library that Jordan had never been in before, did she find the words to speak. Vranphile was absorbing the details of the room with a kind of fascinated twilight in his eyes; he appeared to anxious to find something, and yet made physical gesture to discover it. Casually, Jordan inquired, "sir, would you like me to--"
          "No," Vranphile interrupted with a strangely musical laugh. "No, I know exactly what I'm looking for." He came forward, eyes trained decisively on a particularily well-worn tome on the shelf. He picked it up gingerly, tracing his fingers of the frayed edges of its leather exterior and turned a few pages. Jordan felt uncommonly intrusive, as if she were observing a deeply intimate and private moment. She had never seen her lord so pleased.
          After a few moments he turned to face her again, the volume tucked lovingly under one arm. "Well then," he said, with that same queer little smile. "Let's leave this miserable place, shall we?" And they did.