It was a dreary winter afternoon; Jongin was curled into an armchair by the hearth, book in hand. It wasn't an unusual position to find the man in, him being known for his affinity to reading throughout majority of his twenty one years. The book in question was a thick volume, bound in heavy leather: '60 years of shifting; A Study.'

Nothing was out of ordinary for a Sunday- rather, it was in routine. Nobody was to disturb Jongin in these recurring periods of seclusion. He made this clear, indirectly threatening jail time for anybody who dared to interrupt the silence. Reading was reading after all, and Jongin was Jongin. The threat was thus entirely plausible, and most had the good sense to stay away.

You could only imagine said man's irritation at an abrupt banging at his door. He frowned, looked up at the door momentarily, then redirected his attention back downwards. After a few seconds however, another round of knocking. Grumbling, Jongin drew his legs out from under the blanket- only to yell as the door came flying open, revealing his smugly smiling brother behind it. Jongin groaned inwardly- that was one person he probably couldn't have arrested.

Taemin only had to take one look at Jongin- legs covered by a blanket, book in hand and perched on a large armchair before a fire- before he let out a mirthful snort. Jongin glared at the man, who chuckled drily. "You're wanted in the throne room-" he looked back at Jongin's position amusedly, "-ahjumma."

"I'm not a-" Before Jongin could finish, Taemin disappeared out the room, laughing to himself as he went. Jongin glared indignantly at the doorway for a moment, before grudgingly getting to his feet and making his grumbling way to the throne room. The portraits hung on the stone walls as he walked by seemed to mock him, the numerous politicians and monarchs and whatnot taunting him with their cosy fireplaces and comfortable armchairs.

Finally, the heavy wooden doors of the throne room came into sight. He entered to find his brother seated (and smirking, much to Jongin's distaste) to the right of his father, who sat at the head of the heavy table. 

Kim Youngja was an old man, but hadn't yet lost all the attractiveness of his youth. He'd maintained his height, as well as a mostly full, albeit greyed, head of hair and sharp, chiselled features. His eyes were an almost pure black, and were as piercing as Jongin assumed they would've been back in the day. The aura of a royal surrounded him, from his posture, to his dress, to even the way he carried himself. That was understandable though. He was the King, after all.

"You called me?" Jongin walked over, bowing his head respectfully as he neared. His father gestured to the space to his left; Jongin took a seat. All eyes were then fixed on the king expectantly, waiting for him to speak. Jongin especially- he didn't take an interruption lightly, and would be effectively put out for at least a week if the reason was even remotely trivial.

"The messengers have returned. With news." 

Such simple words- although spoken in a commanding boom- had a drastic effect on the two brothers. They sat forward in their seats, any bemusement or irritation gone. This matter- well, this matter concerned the entire kingdom.

Strange things had been happening in the north, in the island country called Defluo. The region was desert, and a normally very dull one; barely inhabited, it was almost a wasteland. But lately it'd been plagued with disasters. Literally- hurricanes, earthquakes, storms and lighting and fierce sandstorms. The sea just behind was swelling and raging uncharacteristically, body of water normally known for it's flatness. After months of this, the disasters growing in scale and destruction, the King of Indion sent out a search party. They hadn't been heard of for six months. And now they'd returned, and they had news.

The heavy oaken doors at the front of the room swung open almost silently, wood knocking against wall on their completion. Then walked in a man, pale and of medium stature. Huge bags under his eyes hinted to many a restless night; the scruffy beard adorning his face to little time for personal upkeep (or very little care for appearance). What shocked Taemin and Jongin and set the King's mouth into a grim line was, however, the ragged scars running up his arms and across his neck and what of his face could be seen. They were horrific, animalistic, disgusting- in a way that you couldn't tear your eyes from them, that drew your gaze inevitably to them.

"My King," the man bowed deeply to the head of the table, "And Your Highness's."

"Commander Han." The King dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Please relay to us all what you told me earlier."

The man in question nodded curtly, shifting his stance slightly. "As you wish." He cleared his throat, drew breath, then began. Jongin and Taemin watched him intently, the grim air that had settled over the room rendering them completely silent and solemn.

"The team and myself ventured out a party ten; all trained, qualified shifters of the royal guard. Out in the desert, which took us months to reach, all seemed fine. Then night struck, and shifters appeared out of the unsettled dust. We tried to approach civilly, but they attacked us." 

The address was brief and to the point. Commander Han's voice changed somewhat as he went on, his tone taking on a defeated note corresponding with the news he delivered.

"They were unlike anyone... Anything we've ever come up against. They looked like us, and