The Tales of an Unlikely Betrothal

A Story by Prince Ashlityr

Pt. 1 Desperation This is the unrefined, unedited prologue to the books I'm currently working towards

Pt. 1

Desperation

This story is dedicated to my dear Elizabeth, the real princess.

Prologue

Eight- sixty four and the day was new, yet that timeless fog still lingered over Hvelvingen, its own eternal overcast. Under this unwavering blanket lay blossoming the Hvelvin capitol, Glendenvale, thieving in the scarce morning sun. Occupying the waking land under this fog was a man clad in peasant’s apparel. His tattered pelts did their best to ward off the bitter cold, his eyes bled determination. The weight of not only the snow and wind burdened his weary shoulders, but the faith of his village as well. The representative marched from the village Irin, a strictly toul-farming provincial of Jordheirm. Like many of the deprived villages of the tundra, with which Irin could sorely relate, taxes were cruel and relief was more scarce than the time and time again sworn deliveries of supplies and food. The man trudged forth with a meeting and plea to the High King Hrorgar for aid. Over the course of an explicitly ferocious winter, Irin had become the victim to not only a mysterious toulfruit blight, but recurring raids from the outlaws of Jveris as well.

A step forward in the man’s trek directed his eyes to the magnificent capitol of Hvelvingen. As he approached the fortress city, a mélange of spite, jealousy and awe flooded his veins. The walls of slick, icy stone held their own with the mountains he knew to best the skies, spires of magnificent proportion towered boundlessly over the world, peaking a summit a bird’s eye could only envision. A colossal gate of ice and iron stood sixty paces of width and nearly double in height. Sentinels bearing armor of stone and flesh of ice stood vigilant along the gate and walls, without emotion, awaiting their time to again breathe in the frigid Hvelvin air. The whole prospect left him, momentarily, in a stupor.

When he finally approached the gates, the guard was eventually hailed.

“What business?” Demanded a stern voice

“I come on behalf of Irin; Jordheirm” Said the man, “I have a meeting with my king.”

“Aye” The voice replied.

After a short minute, sounds of clockwork and chain rang from inside and a small portion adjacent the monumental gate opened for him.

The man made his way through the market district of Glendenvale, admiring wares of the finest quality, his eye drawn to the lavish silks and outlandish imported goods awaiting purchase in the kiosks. As he approached the Communal Garden, he acquired glances and looks testifying his ill-belonging, for the clothing of passerby’s became posh; their jewelry, exquisite. After a prolonged journey through the gardens, he came upon the intricately-carved Blackwood doors leading to the king’s hall. The doorway seemed as royal as the king himself; gorgeous ancient ornamentations were inscribed from top to bottom. Sapphiric jewels, which he noticed faintly resembled clan insignias, finalized every last intricate circle and line on the surface of the door. One of the king’s high guard, the valor, was said to be coming to meet the man, having been given a message from the front gatesman.

The Valorguard, as they were known, were the king’s right hand, handpicked by Hrorgar himself; the most brutal, the most vicious, and most cunning of his legion. The valor relied completely on their superior grasp of magic for sight and touch, disdaining the eye and means to physically feel. Giving up any ties to a personal life, to all feeling and emotion, they now answer only to the Inquisition and the king himself.

The valor who approached him, an intimidating figure of no less than seven feet in height, wore a dark grey full faced helmet with a small crescent over his left eye and the Glenden insignia over the other. His cuhl-leather tabard bore a similar insignia to the one over his right eye, yet the vest had twelve sockets surrounding the design to be filled with royal sapphires. These sockets represented a valor’s prowess in combat and expertise in the arcane; all twelve sockets were filled. A flowing white cape was fastened under his helmet, latching at the shoulders, every inch of the cloak was pristine, as though it were fitted just that day. Under his vest, the valor wore a very form fitting scaled mail shirt. Every scale was filed down to a razor sharp point. Articulated, full finger gauntlets creaked eerily as his fingers rolled from a fist to their full extension and back. Spiked sabatons fastened with leather straps met his plated leggings just above the calf where a large, circular plate with a massive spike jutting upwards covered his knees. The whole sight was exceedingly menacing to say the least, this man, he presumed, earned every bit of respect he was given.

The valor nearly floated towards him with a startling grace. A feat, the man noted, for one in regular clothing, but almost inhuman for someone in battle dress.

“Business?” a raspy, monotone voice inquired from behind the helmet.

“I-I have a meeting with my king.” The peasant man eventually managed to speak, waiting a moment for a response; he began to add “I’m the emissary from-”

“I am aware, wait for one moment.” The faceless figure declared.

The valor returned into the hall, only to return momentarily, inviting the man inside.

The young man let loose his grip on his sheepskin coat and brushed the frost from his ragged facial hair. Astonishment and reverence filled his eyes. The halls were carved from the finest stone, the walls blended seamlessly as though it had all been one piece. The ceiling climbed inhumanly high, ornate chandeliers hovered around thirteen feet in the air, suspended by some everlasting enchantment. Fires blazed in kilns lining the walls, above them, hung trophy skulls of the most vicious beasts to be found across the tundra. At the head of this great hall, in a throne fit to establish a man above the world, sat the infamous King Hrorgar.

As soon as the king laid eyes on this man, an unpleasant taste filled his mouth, filth, he thought.

The emissary appeared winded; a nasty cough complimented his attempt to catch his breath. It was ostensible that his travels had not only been extensive, but certainly no humble trek either. Stumbling deliberately towards the king in his throne, the man’s rough appearance became more and more apparent. His eyes bled passion; only the most raw of human necessity. The king seemingly failed to notice, merely glancing at him. He observed a faded insignia of Jordheirm, and with this discovery, knew exactly what he would hear. The king let out an obvious exhale, making his displeasure known.

The man approached closer, within swords reach of the throne, began to bow but found his feeble legs too drained to do so, instead kneeling. After an uncomfortable silence, the king left his nose high, paying no heed to the scum at his feet.

The man spoke.

“Greetings my-

“Get on with it, peasant” The king interrupted, boredom veiled his tone.

“I-I have come to ask for aid” The man replied, taken aback. “I am the emissary sent from Irin; we have taken this winter very poorly.”

The man waited for a response from the king although obvious he would get none.

“Our village lies on the brink of starvation, our cellars are empty and we have yet to see or even hear of a caravan from Feldenhelm in months...” The man dragged on “Our men have grown weak, our livestock have either died or had to be slaughtered, and our lands haven’t offered us more than an infant’s feast for two seasons past now, m’lord.”

“Is this peasant here to demand from his generous king?” The king snapped “acquisite your own damned meal! What use does a king have for such inadequate occupants upon his glorious land? Hmm?” the king demanded.

“M-my lord... We beg of you… the slightest of aid would-”

The king scowled malevolently at the man before violently discoursing his riposte.

“Not provided..? Humph... Not provided? Did you hear that Cyril?” The king asked, feinting his head behind him.

A wormy, gaunt skinned man acknowledged the king with a delighted nod; a wicked grin parted his paper thin lips.

The peasant gazed up before the king slowly turned around, the king had risen; arms crossed and pacing backwards, then towards him again.

“Useless, impractical, hopeless… fools” The king muttered audibly, shaking his head with discontent. The king glanced back to Cyril, receiving another nod.

As the man began to open his mouth in one last plea, the king struck him upon the back of the head with stone headed cane he had procured, his head slammed against the ground with the thud and crack she would never forget. Moments passed before the guards dragged the heap of flesh out of the door, a small trail of blood leaked from his forehead and engorged eye sockets down to his chin, echoing as they hit the hard stone floor. Cyril’s revolting snicker, the choir to the orchestra of dripping blood and the violin ensemble of his dragging feet as his, and the guard’s silhouettes faded out of the doorway.

*drip*

© 2012 Prince Ashlityr

Author's Note

Any and ALL criticism, constructive or not is genuinely appreciated. My grammar is off in places although it is purposeful. Thanks a million for reading.

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register

Reviews

Derek Cummings

I think your story, dialogue and use of description is really good here. I was able to see the scenes. I didn't notice any grammatical errors, at least none that distracted me from the story.