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Epitaph of Anguish: A Mire's Clay Crack-ed

In Which Anguish is exiled, but a new start is ripe for the taking.

Warnings: semi-graphic gore, murder, betrayal, exile, abandonment, mention of war, arson, just a lot of tears okay I'm sorry-

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"Getith that thing out o' mine sight. Out o' mine city. I want it here nay longre" the Ambassador's hiss was a cruel one, but the quietly weeping once-lord could not have been more thankful as they were taken away from that awful, death-laden court. 

The streets of the capitol were dead silent, the usual riff-raff and merriment absent due the rains brought by the king - no... no, the Ambassador's wrath. It was the fault of that monster that such harmless actions had been taken to such extremes. Really, they had doubts that the King was in control at all especially after such a display...

The Ambassador's hands moving in tandem, almost in sync but upon being as close as they'd been, as forced to pay rapt attention as they had, the Ambassador always moved first and then the king after. Like a puppeteer and its puppet, inverted from what was assumed to surely be the truth even if the Hanged King had changed so drastically over the centuries, said change clearly being for more than just his imprisonment. Looking back... it was so much more obvious.

The march out of the capitol took a full day with how crowded the streets were and how much effort the guard carrying the deposed noble was putting into keeping them hidden and unrecognized by the public. Best the people not know what became of them, they supposed... Drained and agonized as they were, they found they simply didn't care any longer. What had been theirs was either torn away or damaged and now long gone under the presumption of their death. They genuinely doubted their court Doctor would return, and they found themself hoping he didn't if only to keep him safe. The sound of bones popping and muscles tearing played clearly in their head. feathers and blood scattering and spattering upon the tiled floor... Surely the Ambassador wouldn't be lax enough for his survival the next time. 

Slowly, very slowly, the gates fell open one by one. They'd never been outside the Kingdom before. The space in between the cities of the four nobles was considered backwater. Dangerous in every way and full of beings that cared not for status so much as how many shiny objects they could slice off the corpse. The guard continued, weapon drawn, for a long while, the mask always facing away from the city to see the endless, wretched swampland that carried on, and on, and on. The guard grew more nervous, and the deposed Lord of Anguish could see movement in the corner of their eye. The guard finally stopped before a ditch, practically flinging them down. They slid. Going down and down along the muddied, steep edge of the ditch they'd been tossed into, fine porcelain marred by stagnant filth as mud was kicked upward and ice-cold making the scarce bits of  torn, ragged muscle at the back of their mask twitch and retract painfully. By the time they'd stopped moving, they'd sunk deeply into the half-solid goop at the bottom of their new hell, barely sticking out of the thick mud enough to see as the guard bolted in the direction of the capitol, leaving them in utter silence, surrounded by beings that they simply could not see.

Time passed. They knew not how long. Whatever lingered nearby had no interest in them, and, considering what violence they'd been told of what lived around the outside of the city, they were at utter peace with that. The sky was overcast and heavy, greens and greys swirling into thick, pea-soup misery up above. They were sure that, in spite of the sky that told them nothing, days must have passed. Then weeks, and then finally, years. They had learned a few of the languages of the things that lived near. Potentially, at least, as they were uncertain as to whether or not the words were in their own head. No matter what, it was something, and they found themself eavesdropping on conversations that they uncertain as to whether were spoken or even of the mystery residents of the foul, rancid mire. So they did what they could, and listened to languages they'd never heard before and, on occasion, never would again. Was this where Wandsmen were meant to go? Or perhaps those whom were maskless? If such was the case, he understood why they snuck into in the city more often than not. The place they were in now was repulsive.