Henry VII, King of Aschlon, sat around his table sipping fine wine and dining on the finest stooso cheese, his expensive, ceremonial robes crisp and neat. His family sat on the left: his wife, his two children and his mother laughed and chatted to each other. On his right was seated the highest of the Church officials. All fat, their cyan robes were stained with dozens of colours; at least a third of the 5 course meal they had just wolfed down sat on their flabbery chests. They were laughing and talking, acting as if everything was fine. He scowled. How could they act so obliviously, did they not know that the world they knew was about to end? Did they not realise that the Hootofts were right at the gates? They had been told, they could have fled. But they did not listen. He himsleft could never flee. Better to die in his home than in a ditch somewhere. He glanced at his wife and she glanced back. He had not told her the news. She was worried for him. He sighed and continued to drink. A sudden banging made him put down the glass and glance at the door, just as it burst open and a Hootoft officer and two Hootoft soldiers walked in, their fully automatic weapons trained on the country's lords. Slowly, Henry VII, King of Aschlon put up his hands as more soldiers streamed into the hall. He was led out, his family weeping and the Priests gaping behind him as they entered the courtyard. The Priests were shot first, their bodies hitting the ground with a thump. His mother died next, her eyes begging him to save her as the gun was pressed against the back of her head. But he could do nothing. His wife was next, their children grabbing her, begging her not to go. He looked into his love's eyes for the last time. He watched as his children died, their cries and wails silenced. He looked up at the sky just as he felt the gun nuzzle, almost lovingly, against his temple.
