The old Archon stormed the floors of his tower, raging at opportunity. Behind him trailed his personal guard, those of his own line too low to be a threat to his rule but close enough that he could train and condition them to be loyal.
The Archon fumed, his neck creaking and drying to be as hard as the walls he had built over so many long years. He was in a fortress his line had constructed over many long years – completely impenetrable - and yet somehow his enemies had found their way in. Somehow they had found a way to torture him and bring him to death.
He found his way to rooms of the fortress he had not stepped foot into for centuries – the kitchens. Storage units were flung open as he desperately searched. It had been days, but there at last he had found something. Nansildegar, an excellent vintage. He took the pocket scanner from his coat and poured a drop of the fine drink, and the familiar chime came. The small console blinked red, and the results came up. Hydra’s Bane. He would have been dead in seconds.
The Archon flung the bottle across the room and roared, the furious noise crackling out after only a short time, no strength in his vocal chords to power it through. This had been going on for days, every drink, every liquid in his fortress – poisoned. He stock of the finest wines from across the galaxy, either Asp’s Tongue, or the somewhat comical Solitaire’s Kiss. He had used them himself, and been very amused by the results. Other drinks had had Carnose Toxin, Hypertoxin or a particularly violent and unnamed Shaimeshi blend. The water reclamation system were laced too, these to his great surprised had been infected with nothing less than the Glass Plague.
It was everywhere, not a drop to be had in the entire fortress. He was wheezing, dry air all that you could expel from his lungs. He knew he would die if this continued, but every liquid was poison! How had his enemies gotten into the fortress? How had they accomplished such a feat as to poison everything? How?
The cold throne room echoed with footsteps as the young Archon strode across the floor towards the old man, fallen at the bottom step on his dais reaching for his throne, the last pitiful attempt of the old man to die with dignity. His body was shriveled, almost skeletal, desperate for liquid despite being surrounded by it. The young Archon reach to the old man’s hand and lifted the scanner from it. An older model, the backdoor coding having been worked through centuries ago, but the old man had always been so set in his ways. The young Archon sat on his throne and passed the scanner over the goblet that sat on the chair’s arm. King’s Deminse. He lifted the goblet and drank heartily, the ancient vintage spilling out from the edges of his grin.