Feast of Exile - a King's Feast prologue story...

Feast of Exile

The grand hall of the Celestial Spire was silent save for the slow trickle of water from the ancient fountain at its center, a sound that might have been soothing if not for the weight of judgment pressing from every direction, focussed on one girl. Peyallil stood before Veythas, and the Council of Elders, her seven-foot frame unbowed, her white curls tumbling in a deliberate cascade over her bare shoulders. Dressed in nothing but the skimpy white dress and some old sandals fit for a Celestian prisoner, the sight of her body, so unashamedly lush and on display, would make the wrinkled lips of the stubborn elders twist in disapproval.

Veythas, his voice like dry sandpaper, spoke first.

"Peyallil of the Seventh Chime, you stand accused of gluttony most foul. The sacred stores of the Celestial Vault, meant to sustain our people through the Long Dusk, you have consumed with wanton disregard. Three barrels of ambrosial wine, drained to dregs. A haunch of moon-stag, devoured before the blessing could even be spoken. The Golden Pears of Luminar." His gnarled finger trembled as he pointed, "Eight of them, gone in a single sitting. And the evidence?"

He gestured with a sneer towards her now ill fitting garb, the pencil thin form of the average Celestian woman, corrupted by gluttony, filling out just enough to look like the average common elf, or even human.

"You reek of indulgence."

"Mmm," she hummed, low and throaty.

"I was hungry, do you expect me to lie there, stomach grumbling an orchestra for days?"

Veythas scoffed at the idea, a woman eating when she likes, did this girl think she were royalty? Or is this true gluttonous hubris? Just before his thoughts could linger anymore, the halls were interrupted by the hungry orchestra the girl mentioned just before. It was loud, enough to bounce off the stale walls, the gasps were satisfying. She let her gaze wander over the elders, lingering on the way their robes strained over their sunken chests, the way their throats bobbed in outrage. Pathetic. They had no idea what it was to live, to take pleasure in the crush of fruit against the tongue, the slide of wine down a throat.

"You show no remorse," Veythas hissed.

Peyallil lifted her chin. “Why should I?” she asked, each word shaped with lazy confidence, as if the trial bored her more than it frightened her.

“I ate what was good. I ate what was there. I did not steal, I relieved. You let food sit untouched for centuries until it petrifies into ritual. I simply… liberated it.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the elders. Was it blasphemy? Or worse, flippancy. Elder Saellune, draped in veils of transparent gold, leaned forward on her staff. 

“Your appetite is a stain upon our people. Celestians do not gorge. Celestians do not crave. Celestians do not bloat themselves like earthbound cattle.”

Peyallil smiled sweetly. “Perhaps they should.”

Another round of hisses and mutters. The fountain’s trickle was suddenly deafening in comparison. Veythas smacked his staff against the marble floor, the sound sharp as lightning.

“You mock us. You consume blessings intended for all. You disfigure the vessel granted to you at ascension. Look at yourself!”

She did, glancing down with deliberate slowness. Her dress clung to her curves, pulled taut where once it had hung loosely. Her hips brushed the edge of modesty. Her midriff no longer showed the delicate hollowness prized among Celestians. A soft, slight swell rested there now, rounded from weeks of quiet, secret indulgence. Her breasts strained the thin cloth, almost threatening to leave, yet not quite.

She posed the slightest bit more openly, knowing they noticed.

“I like myself,” she said simply.

A few elders recoiled as if struck, one sputtered wordlessly.

Saellune’s voice was cold. “You have defiled our discipline and scorned our restraint. Your behavior invites corruption. Excess. Attachment to the mortal realm. And yet you stand there… pleased.”

Peyallil shrugged, a low, satisfied roll of her shoulders. “Have you ever tasted moon-stag while it’s still warm? Or felt ambrosial wine fizz against your lips? Have you ever eaten until you felt full? Truly full? Until you knew you were alive?”

The silence that followed was not sacred, only stunned.

“You speak as though this hunger is a virtue,” Veythas spat.

“It is.” She let the words settle. “A virtue you’ve forgotten.”

Another rumble answered her, deep, resonant, unmistakable. Her stomach, restless, demanding.

The elders reacted as if she had unleashed a demon. Gasps, curses, a few recoiling as though the sound itself was an affront to divinity.

Saellune’s face twisted into something like triumph, something like disgust. “Then there is no hope for you. No discipline. No penitence. You are ruled by your appetite.”

Veythas’ face purpled. "Enough. The decree is final. For your crimes, you are cast out. The surface will be your prison, the mortals your only company. May their meager offerings starve the beast of your appetite."

He lifted his staff, and the others mirrored him.

“Let the record show that Peyallil of the Seventh Chime is unrepentant, defiant, and wholly corrupted by earthly desire.”

She didn’t resist as the guards, two hulking celestians with faces like carved stone, stepped forward clamping their hands around her upper arms. The touch was rough, but she leaned into it, letting her weight press against them just enough to feel the way their muscles tensed.

They dragged her toward the great archway, the tops of her feet skimming the cold floor. The last thing she saw before the light of the Spire vanished was Veythas’ face, twisted in disgust, his fingers clutching at the edges of his robe as if to shield himself from the sight of her. The portal flared, a searing white-hot ring, and then…

Impact.

The surface hit her like a lover’s slap, sudden and stinging. Peyallil landed hard on her knees, the breath knocked from her lungs, her palms slapping against damp earth. The air here was thick, heavy, laden with the scent of turning soil and something else. She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring as she took in the stink of sweat, of cooking meat, of unwashed bodies and the musk of common mortals.

She pushed herself up, the dress, now her only possession, clinging to her skin, the fabric damp from the landing. The portal had discarded her by the edge of a marketplace, the noise of it a deafening cacophony after the sterile silence of the Spire. Stalls lined the dirt paths, displaying fruits and wares she did not recognize.

A nearby stall roasting skewers of something dark and glistening over an open flame, the fat dripping into the fire with a hiss sent Peyallil’s stomach growling once again, a deep, primal sound, and she felt her lips curl into a smile.

The mortals noticed her immediately.

It was impossible not to. She towered over them, her white curls cascading from another floor down to the level of the commoners below, her dress doing little to hide her uniquely Celestian frame.

A child pointed, his finger trembling. A merchant dropped a basket of figs, the fruit rolling into the dirt as his eyes locked onto the length of her legs. Peyallil stretched, arching her back, letting the dress ride up just a little more.

“What the fuck…" a man breathed beside her, his voice rough. She turned her head slowly, looking down at him. He was broad-shouldered, his skin tainted by the harsh sun, his hands calloused, worn. His gaze was fixed on her chest, the fabric of her dress so thin she might as well have been bare.

"You, you’re not from here." He stuttered.

“No," Peyallil murmured, stepping closer. The crowd parted for her like water, their bodies pressing together as they scrambled to give her space. She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the man’s tunic, feeling the rough weave beneath her fingertips. "Tell me, do you have wine here? Something sweet. Something that burns."

The man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Aye. The tavern, just past the smithy. They’ve got honey-mead. Strong enough to drop a bull."

She didn’t wait for him to lead her. Just sauntered off into the marketplace, led by nothing but her appetite. The marketplace blurred around her, the scents and sounds merging into a haze of sensation. All that mattered was the promise of more, the burn of mead 

The tavern loomed ahead, its door hanging ajar, Peyallil’s smile turned hungry. This didn’t seem like punishment at all, the surface was going to be delicious.