PROLOGUE – The Message

The Sun is at its apex. A horse gallops in the distance, a cloud of dust trails it. It was
incredibly fast, as if the rider was racing with death itself…
Turns out, that actually was the case.
Upon reaching the gates of the Crowned City of the Kings—Auire, named after the man
who heralded civilization—the Gatemen welcomed a gasping, wounded, and rattled
rider to the mouth of the city. The Gatemen examined and observed the rider, hoping to
know where he may have came from; before explicitly asking him such. The rider wore
armor, though only his breastplate. Eventually, the Gatemen set their eyes upon it. The
rider, the knight, is Myrmidorean—a local citizen of the current Realm Lord back in their
home city, the seat of the Eurandors. As, in the middle of the breastplate, a silver
salmon is elaborately engraved. After the Gatemen have set their assumption, they
began to interrogate him.
“Where hast thou came from, humble rider?” Ask the higher Gateman.
“Myr… Myrmid… Or… Myrmidor.” Answered the rider, with several pauses brought
about by pain and exhaustion.
“Ah, from the Greenlands. That’s, that’s faraway. What bringeth thou here? In the
glorious city of the kings. And thy wounds, what happened to thee?” Still the higher
Gateman asking, now filled both with curiosity and a just concern.
“I… I need t-to… I need to speak to the, to the council, Ser! I have a message. Message
only for the Realm Lord himself. For Lord Ryktorran Eurandor.” Replied the rider, now
speaking coherently, considerably.
“Ser, I am afraid that cannot happen. The Realm Lord and the other Kings'rt in a
meeting as of this moment. Obviously, no time have they for thee nor for thy message,
nor for… Whomever sent thee.” Said the higher Gateman, he had somewhat found the
situation eerily funny.
“This, THIS! Is… Urgent!” Screamed the tired rider. With, the shortness of breath had
clung to him again. The Gatemen held their laughs.
“Aye, no need for shouting, Ser. How about, thou hand us thy message and I’ll make
sure it reaches the realm lord. I assure thee, it will reach his highness.” The higher
Gateman responded calmly.
“I… I a-am… I am the message.” The rider answered while clinging to the higher
Gateman’s cloak, he was gasping as he was seething—blood started flowing out of his
orifices, first from his mouth, then from his eyes. He fell down to the ground, and started
shaking, vomiting frothy blood of almost black. The Gatemen were alarmed, fear began
knocking on their shining silver helms. The lower Gateman shouted at his comrades at
the outpost, asking reinforcements and signaling a Mender.
“Ser! Art thou alright?! Ser?” The higher Gateman nervously asked the rider while
strongly rocking his right shoulder.
The rider can no longer speak. His irises have retreated far back into his eyelids.
Beneath them, a puddle of blood have already formed.
“Get the Menders, get the fucking Menders!” Ordered the higher Gateman to the lower,
churning within him are concern and dread.
“Called them already, I did! The fools might still be praying to fucking God!” Responded
the lower, bearing the same feeling as his superior feels. The rider’s body suddenly
bloated, his armor ever-so-slightly being stretched as the pressure builds. The eyes of
the Gatemen widened underneath their visors.
“Then, where art th–!” The higher Gateman’s words were cut off as the rider’s body
exploded. Releasing a deafening sound, almost like thunder—the boom resounded
across the gate, the ground even shook momentarily. His armor, made of steel, now
ripped apart and is sent flying towards the tower at the gate. His entrails flew as well,
scattered across the area—the gate upfront was painted red, some intestines and limbs
stuck to it. The knight had just died but the stench that filled the air smelled as if his
body have been decaying for weeks. The two Gateman were pushed into the air by the
shockwave. Their front all red. Even with full armor, they were wounded. Their ears bled
from the boom of the body’s explosion. The high ringing filled their ruptured ears. After a
moment, three Gatemen and two Menders arrived, at last. Before them, are organs and
blood splattered across the ground, the gate, and the walls.
“What happened here?” Ask the higher Mender, he was sweating under his robes; he
was standing near the epicenter of the blast. The three Gatemen who just arrived
wandered around the scene and inspected; the other Mender tended to the two who
were injured. The two Gatemen who were stationed, however, cannot hear anymore
and thus cannot answer the question. Seconds later, the higher Gateman fell into
unconsciousness as he was being healed.
The lower, with his waning grip to daylight, uttered:
“The… message, for… the Realm… Lord.” While pointing at the center of the massive
blood splatter—he fainted right after, pointing still. There, at the middle, lies a crown. It
was unscathed, neither flesh nor blood clinging to it. It was the only thing shining there.
Even the armor of the Gatemen that had just arrived did not have their sheen—it was all
grey, though it was in the afternoon, as if a storm is looming just overhead.
One of the Gatemen picked up the crown. Upon further and close inspection, the crown
was no ordinary crown. The crown had four silver salmons in the front caressing each
other, their formation resembled a laid down ‘K’—each had eyes of ruby gems, and
intertwined branches wrapped around the band. No doubt, the crown belongs to no
other than a Eurandorean royalty, the Queen of Myrmidor… Wife of the seated Realm
Lord.
The Gateman had no time to speak, to utter any more word. He stripped himself of his
cape, his helm, his gauntlets, his pauldrons, and he ran towards the palace… As swift
as a storm’s gale, from a storm that’s about to come.
A man came atop a chariot, offering the running knight a more faster transport.
Together, they rushed across the city streets. Bystanders, vendors, everyone had their
eyes focused on the two. None could utter a word, they could only watch as the chariot
moved past them and until it was out of their sight. The charioteer was heavily curious
of the commotion at the citygate. As they ride, the curiosity took ahold of him.
“What happened back there?” Ask the charioteer.
“I don’t even know. First, we heard the call of one of our own… We were lagging,
fucking Menders… Praying. Then, as we were en route—a loud, like thunder… Echoed
about. We ran then, five of us… even the old Menders. When we arrived at the scene,
there is this wide pool of blood, flesh and guts all over, it smelled horrendous. At the
side, were the stationed Gatemen at the time. They were down to the ground, bloodied,
very bloodied. Their consciousness, already adrift. Lastly, this crown, this crown at the
center of it all.” The responding Gateman explained in detail everything that he knew.
“What’s with the crown? Why are you all panicking?” The charioteer followed up, his
curiosity still not satiated.
“It’s from a fucking Queen! And not just any Queen! It’s the crown of the fucking Queen
of the Realm Lord himself! Now, focus on steering for God’s sake!” The Gateman
shouted at the charioteer, emotions stormed him—anger, fear, and anxiety. He was
sweating, breathing heavily, he gripped the crown incredibly tight that the ornamental
branches punctured his palms, wounding it enough to bleed. But still, the crown
remained pristine. The blood simply dripped, as if it was oil and water. The charioteer,
quite embarrassed by the scolding, focused on maneuvering the chariot. The horse’s
stride hastened as the whip cracked, the rattling of the wood and iron wheels resounded
throughout the city as it spun countless of times across the stone streets.
Finally, after several minutes of riding, the two reached the palace premises. They stand
before the Crown Palace, built by the grandchildren of Auire the Curious. The Gateman
had grew weak, his knees were trembling since the chariot stop, the crown have now
dug deeper into his palms, blood pouring. The charioteer had no choice but to aid the
knight in relaying the message. He called one of the Knights at the palace gate to guard
his rusted chariot. While the renowned Palace Knights moved forward to question their
approach.
“Let us through! It’s of grave importance!” The charioteer preemptively shouted as he
saw the Palace Knights approaching towards them—as he is assisting the seemingly
lifeless Gateman at his shoulders.
The Arch Palace Knight tilted his head while walking down the stairs before the gate—
he saw the crown as sunlight reflected on it, giving it more prominence than it already
has.
“What is the meaning behind this, Henrad?” Ser Gwendryck, the Arch of the Palace
Knights asked the lowly charioteer.
“Ser Gwendryck, I’m afraid ‘tis about the Queen of Myrmidor.” Answered Henrad, while
carefully laying down the now-unconscious Gateman to the pristine floor of the palace
stairs. Slowly, he pulled the crown off of the Gateman’s bloody left hand and handed it
off to Ser Gwendryck. The other Palace Knights stared at the crown well and curiously,
as Ser Gwendryck inspected it firsthand. Assuring himself if it is indeed belonging to the
Myrmidorean Queen.
“Fuck.” Is the only word that Ser Gwendryck, a chivalrous and honorable Knight, could
come up in that very moment. His fellow Palace Knights were surprised by Ser
Gwendryck’s choice of word. It meant only one thing, that the situation ahead is gravely
unpleasant. Ser Gwendryck was lost for words as he was lost for sufficient knowledge
of the sudden events that have transpired so far. The Arch Palace Knight grew anxious,
it filled his stomach down to his guts like a food he cannot digest. Henrad noticed this
uneasiness painted across the visages of the Palace Knights, especially of Ser
Gwendryck. He then proceeded to relay the events to the Palace Knights as the
Gateman have unfolded to him. After it, it was all clear to the Palace Knights.
“We’ll take it from here, Henrad. You shall be rewarded for your service.” Ser
Gwendryck told the charioteer.
“I thank you, Ser Gwendryck!”, Replied Henrad, gleefully as he repeatedly bowed
knowing full-well all of his pockets will be filled with silver. The Palace Knights begun to
walk upstairs, with haste nonetheless. Henrad watched them until they stepped off the
final stair. He asked the stationed Knight for help, for a Mender's aid. While the Knight
calls off one, Henrad sat and stayed with the unconscious Gateman.
Ser Gwendryck and three other Palace Knights now stand before the palace gate. It is
the only thing left separating them from the council of Kings, the intended receiver of the
message. The other Palace Knights could only stand still, their patience slowly being
broken down with dread. Ser Gwendryck carried the most weight amongst them all, he
carries the weight of the realm with him. After all, he personally knows the seated
Realm Lord and his family. He is contemplating before the gate, perspiring intensely,
like a raincloud he seemed—the floor beneath his feet was glistening than it ever have
because of his sweat. He have killed a hundred men already, fought in conquests too
many to count, and yet, this is the only moment in his life so far that he ever felt fear of
this scale. He wished as if his anxiety, the fear he feels, were washed away as sweat is
released from his skin. He was still as a lake. His fellow Palace Knights were too afraid
to break this stillness, they can feel him dying inside. After a minute or so, Ser
Gwendryck sighed—a sign of a dwindling life within him. His fellow Palace Knights were
relieved, for a moment enough. They grew more anxious of what is about to come now
that Ser Gwendryck is ready to knock at the palace gate. Ser Gwendryck finally
knocked, it broke the silence.
His first few knocks were weak, not enough to produce a sound—he was trembling. All
of them were. They are not to participate in a battle in the instant, a battle of which
dictates the fate of their kin, but it weighed on them as if it is the most dangerous and
crucial war they'll ever fight in. It was a war within themselves. Ser Gwendryck knocked
again, now the other Palace Knights knocked with him—they were in unison. But before
they could finish, the gate began to open. As the gates open, Ser Gwendryck trembled
even more, to the point that his armor might be shaken off of him. But as the gates were
opened fully, he suppressed only the trembling of his—not the fear, the fear prevailed.
The fear reminded Ser Gwendryck of his humanity, of his bond to the realm. A feat only
a man of Ser Gwendryck’s stature could accomplish. They entered slow, afar in their
sights are the Kings, seated behind the famous crescent table. In the middle, stands the
ever-glorious Realm Lord, Ryktorran Eurandor. The Realm Lord’s voice echoed
grandiosely across the walls of the spacious chamber, just as the silver steps of the Ser
Gwendryck and the Palace Knights. They were unable to understand the discussion at
the crescent table, they can hear the voices but are too faraway to understand the
words. It is the Kings who first noticed the four Palace Knights approaching the table,
they were facing them after all. Then, the Realm Lord noticed that the attention of the
Kings were no longer given to him and his words, it was now directed towards his back.
He stopped what he was saying and turned around. Then and there, he saw Ser
Gwendryck and his Palace Knights approaching. Voices there were no longer any, only
the clamoring steel armor and the chainmail underneath and the uneven footsteps clad
in silver, across the shining marble floor of the palace.
“Ser Gwendryck, Ser Aren, Ser Hallistaire, and Ser Wredmyn… All of you were not one
in your steps. How discordant that was in our ears. That’s the first time such happened.”
Lord Ryktorran remarked, he was filled with bewilderment and surprise over the small
imperfection of the otherwise always harmonious Palace Knights.
“Forgive us, my Lord.” Ser Gwendryck responded courteously, while his head was
bowed. So bowed the others. The Kings at the crescent table watched them carefully,
their gazes piercing through their armor like a soul blade, straight into their already-
wrecked guts.
“So, what seems to be the purpose of the barging of you four in the middle of a council
meeting, huh? What seems to be the superior, significant matter over discussing the
realm itself?” The Realm Lord asked the four, clearly with a masked annoyance. The
Palace Knights felt such. At that moment, Ser Gwendryck knew, that the infuriation laid
before them will fade as another emotion, an especially unwanted emotion, will flood the
Realm Lord’s veins.
Ser Gwendryck revealed the crown infront of the council, now wrought by dread,
trembling as he was infront of the gate, he hands it to Lord Ryktorran.
“This, my Lord.” Ser Gwendryck answered.
End
PROLOGUE – The Crown
“This… this is Yssandra's crown. Why is it here? Why is the Queen’s crown here?! Ser
Gwendryck, WHY is my wife’s, YOUR sister’s, crown here? Is this some sort of
foolery?” Lord Ryktorran, full of confusion and anger, asked Ser Gwendryck. He is lost.
“No, Your Grace. I have been told that a bloodied rider, a Knight hailing from Myrmidor,
arrived at the city gates this very afternoon. The Knight was sent, by someone still
unknown, to deliver a message—And now, the message have reached your hands, my
Lord.” Ser Gwendyrck answered, he mustered up the confidence to cloak the fear that
was anchoring him.
“A sign of declaration. Where is this Myrmidorean knight you speak of?!” Lord Ryktorran
asked, enraged as torn still.
“Still at the gates, my Lord. Naught but a puddle of blood and flesh now. The crown was
simply relayed to us by a Gateman and a charioteer. I have been informed that the rider
abruptly exploded, and at the blast, the crown was.” Ser Gwendryck answered. The
conversation was overheard by the Kings at the back, they are now unsettled in their
seats—all of their senses now focused on the discussion in front. Some Kings
participated in the talk.
“Exploded, you say? Well, fortunate, the Knight were not welcomed within the city.” Said
the Winter King, Raiimar.
“Sorcery, undoubtedly. Scholars better be called, my Lord!” Said Eagen, the old King of
Highlands.
“I humbly beg of your silence, my humble Kings. The discussion is for our ears alone.”
Demanded the Realm Lord. “I shall not repeat myself.” He followed. “Forgive us, Your
Highness.” Said all the Kings, even those that did not speak. Lord Ryktorran nodded
sideways in disappointment.
“Ser Aren, call Sir Dumonte, the Realm Lord requires his intellect.” Ordered Lord
Ryktorran. His voice now calmed.
“Aye, My Lord.” Replied Ser Aren. The humble Palace Knight walked with swiftness and
grace in his steps, turning behind the last pillar of the great halls towards the chambers
of the Scholars.
“What goes inside your mind, as of this moment, Gwendryck?” Lord Ryktorran asked
Ser Gwendryck, while every ounce of his attention poured unto the crown in his hand.
Inspecting it by sight, by touch, even by smell—the reality that his wife is truly harmed
clawed his heart and mind, he suffers slowly, he persists to reject the thought. This
broke him more than the thought that his homeland might now be overran by ruination
of someone so evil. Lord Ryktorran did not address the Arch Palace Knight as ‘Ser’ in
the question—he, at that moment, yearns to know the thought of his brother-in-law, and
not one of his a-thousand servants.
Ser Gwendryck noticed this, he answered with honesty and the truth of his state of
mind:
"Fear, My Lord. Ever since I held the crown, worry unlike no other shackled me. Now
that every sense I have points to Myrmidor invaded, then have we no choice but to
retake it from whomever forced his ass on the green throne."
Lord Ryktorran placed his right hand unto Ser Gwendryck's left shoulder, the Realm
Lord had to look up as Ser Gwendryck was taller—they stared at each other's eye. Both
knew what each other felt. Both knew they carry the same emotion and feelings. Their
gazes cut each other's soul—amidst the brewing sorrow, their bond as kin have sewn
them tight.
At the corner of Lord Ryktorran's sight emerged the blurry silhouette of the Scholar he
tasked be called, slowly walking towards them. The gaze-off of the two ended. Ser
Gwendryck looked back and saw the two, his fellow Palace Knight, Ser Aren; and the
Grandmaster Scholar, Sir Dumonte. He stepped aside for the Realm Lord to clearly see.
Lord Ryktorran, Ser Gwendryck, Ser Hallistaire, Ser Wredmyn, and the Kings at the
crescent table watched as Ser Aren routinely had to pause walking as he would
continuously overtake the geriatric Scholar at his side. An awkward silence filled the
halls. Gruelingly, the Scholar finally reached the immediate presence of the Realm Lord.
Ser Aren sweated more than Sir Dumonte.
“What is it that you need this old mind of mine, Your Highness?” Sir Dumonte, while
bowed, asked Lord Ryktorran.
“Ah, Sir Dumonte. Please, raise your head.” Lord Ryktorran ordered the scholar. Sir
Dumonte gladly followed.
“I want you to write a letter for Myrmidor. Gather the Sorcerers, teleport it you must—I
want immediate confirmation regarding the events at Myrmidor. Everything have
transpired so suddenly. Personally take care of the preservation of my Queen’s Crown;
and inspect it if you would, I am not knowledgeable of sophisticated sorcery but if you
could ascertain the state of my wife with that treasure, have at it, even if the crown be
destroyed. Clarity, is all I want.” The Realm Lord ordered. He handed the crown to Sir
Dumonte carefully, caressing the crown with his fingers as he passed it—running his
touch as if it was the hair of his wife.
“Your will be done, Your Highness.” Sir Dumonte responded. As Sir Dumonte took
ahold of the crown, his visage was painted uneasiness and surprise. He set his gaze
upon it more closely. Scrutinizing every nook and cranny with his touch and sight. With
his feel, he assessed the material, the ornaments, the gems. Sir Dumonte was overrun
with doubt of the legitimacy of the crown before him. To lay the truth, the scholar
awakened a sorcery practiced by great Scholars of Remesys—the Seven Eyes of
Vecier, they call it. It was a sorcery often used to decypher codes, glyphs, and runes in
ancient texts and architectures. The other men in the halls witnessed this—the eyes of
Sir Dumonte lit blue, vapor began to rise from it, as glimmering tears fell down to the
scholar’s robes. His doubts shattered, as truth now attained.
“What is it you’re doing, Sir Dumonte?” Asked the Ser Hallistaire. No one answered,
everyone was busy watching Sir Dumonte and a rarely-seen sorcery of the Remesys
Scholars. They were in awe of the sight. Then, it was broken.
“Your Highness, this crown… It is but fake!” Exclaimed the old man, shock he was—but
not as shocked as the others before him. The Palace Knights felt relief bath them, the
tension building up on them suddenly lifted gloriously. The Kings at the crescent table
cheered in their glad sighs, they now rest their frail backs unto their shimmering seats.
Lord Ryktorran did not know what he should feel—should he smile, should he jump,
should he doubt. In the end, he stood still. He began to breathe deeply, slowly he did.
“What is it now, Sir Dumonte?” Asked the Realm Lord, to reaffirm himself of the truth
laid ahead.
“It is fake, Your Highness! I had just examined it with the lenses of the Gods
themselves. Must have just been a wicked prank of rogue bandits!” Answered Sir
Dumonte, a sense of triumph rushed throughout his body. He felt as if he saved the
world.
The crown, suddenly, moved. Sir Dumonte felt this, shock and fear sundered his
celebration; it creeped on him quicker than the relief that rained upon them. Out of
instinct, his arm flicked to remove the crown off his hands. However, pain followed—the
branches are now hooked into his palms, blood gushed. Within his palms, he felt the
small, rooted branches of the crown crush his tiny bones and tear his weak muscles. He
screamed, it thundered throughout the great hall. The other men were shocked when
the old man suddenly screamed, just as shocked as Sir Dumonte when the crown
rattled. One can smell the accumulating dread in the halls.
“Sir Dumonte! What’s happened to you?!” Asked Ser Gwendryck, worried he was.
Sir Dumonte cannot answer. Excruciating pain wrapped in his right arm, he was in a
magnitude of agony unlike no other—his age intensified the pain. He was incredibly
sweating. Nearly, the scholar was fainting. The Palace Knights were fully wary now,
their hands already at the hilt of their blades, ready to unsheathe their blades over a
threat they could not even ascertain. Ser Gwendryck positioned himself infront of the
Realm Lord to protect him. The Kings at the crescent table all stood up in their seats.
Ser Hallistaire signaled Ser Aren to call reinforcements—other Palace Knights and
Menders. Ser Aren followed, he rushed towards the gate.
Sir Dumonte’s frailty took over, he fell facedown to the floor. He was writhing. “Sir
Dumonte! Sir! Get him some help!” Demanded the Realm Lord.
“Ser Aren have set off to get some already, My Lord” Ser Hallistaire answered.
Lord Ryktorran wanted to approach his duteous servant, Ser Gwendryck did not let him
however.
“Ser Wredmyn!” Shouted Ser Gwendryck, ordering his underling to assess and aid Sir
Dumonte who was down to the ground, writhing in pain still.
Ser Wredmyn slowly approached the old Scholar. He knelt. Just as he was about to
touch the back of Sir Dumonte, the old Scholar stopped moving. At first, they thought he
had unfortunately, succumbed to his death. However, Sir Dumonte grunted, grasping
the brittle mortal coil of his, he does. Ser Wredmyn touched and gently moved Sir
Dumonte.
“Sir Dumonte, are you with us still?” Asked Ser Wredmyn. Rocking him gently. Blood
began to emerge from underneath the fallen body of Sir Dumonte. Ser Wredmyn looked
back towards his comrades, they nodded in response. Ser Wredmyn looked again at Sir
Dumonte and turned his body, facing the high ceiling. The old Scholar was still
breathing, although barely.
“Sir Dumonte?” Ask Ser Wredmyn. “What’s taking Ser Aren so long?” He followed, a
question directed to his comrades.
“Hold on, Sir Dumonte. Help is on the way!” Ser Wredmyn assured Sir Dumonte while
he held the scholar’s left hand. He set his eyes upon the scholar’s severely lacerated
right arm. It was a disgusting sight, more gut-wrenching than a beheaded man. The skin
was torn open, the broken bones poked through the gutted skin—it was purple, the
muscles were twisted, blood was bubbling. The crown was now in eerie shape, wrapped
around the entire arm. It was decaying already. Sir Dumonte began to cough. Ser
Wredmyn turned his sights towards Sir Dumonte’s face—blood plentiful rushed out of
his mouth.
“Sir Dumonte! Hold on!” Lord Ryktorran shouted. “Ser Wredmyn! Remove the crown!”
Ordered the Realm Lord—with maddening conviction.
“Your Highness, such thing is now impossible. The crown has these threads that have
raveled itself with the flesh of Sir Dumonte.” Ser Wredmyn answered. “If Your Highness
permits, I shall sever Sir Dumonte’s right arm!” Ser Wredmyn followed, with equal
conviction.
“Have at it! Save the man!” Lord Ryktorran exclaimed, without doubt and delay.
“It shall be done, Your Highness!” Ser Wredmyn responded.
Ser Wredmyn stood. The moment he reached for his sword, the crown wrapped tightly,
crushing Sir Dumonte’s entire right arm to thin. The arm was wrung of its blood—it was
spilled across the vicinity, especially to Ser Wredmyn’s armor. Sir Dumonte screamed
as his arm were torn, straight after, he finally faded into the dark. None were certain of
his life. Ser Wredmyn unsheathed his sword. The sheen was blinding. The moment he
lifted it, the crown, in a fraction of an eye’s blink, shifted its entire structure to form a
spear—it aimed straight for the sliver of Ser Wredmyn’s exposed face. Blood spurted
out violently. Ser Wredmyn’s head was skewered, entry with his nose and exited atop
his scalp. His sword fell unto the floor, the clang produced several loud echoes. The
marble floor cracked.
“WREDMYN!” Ser Gwendryck shouted with all of his might. He solidifed his stance then.
Ser Hallistaire unsheathed his blade, and signaled the Kings to hide.
The Kings cowered underneath the crescent table then. Ser Gwendryck’s shout was
long, it ended just as the echoes ran out. Silence came, but were broken instantly. The
crown, now spear, transformed once again—within Ser Wredmyn’s head. The
transformation was brutal. Ser Wredmyn’s head exploded. He was decapitated. As Ser
Wredmyn’s body was falling down, the crown twisted and reformed once again. Now, it
gained volume, it grew bigger. When the armored body of Ser Wredmyn pounded to the
ground, a wicked creature stands before them—atop the bloody scene.
“Aye, the crown… Indeed… Is fake.” It spoke. A crude voice, as if the creature’s throat
was dry as a desert. Ser Gwendryck finally unsheathed his famed blade, the Riverfang,
and switched to an offensive stance. Lord Ryktorran still behind him. Ser Hallistaire
began to rush at the creature, his sword infront. However, the moment Ser Hallisatire
lifted his foot—the creature placed its claws unto Sir Dumonte’s face, even scratching
the old scholar’s neck. It prompted Ser Hallistaire to stop his attack. Even though, they
lean to believe that Sir Dumonte is gone.
The creature was as tall as Ser Gwendryck, it was severely slim, its ribs in full display
from its skin; its claws were long, unkempt, and sharp. Hairless it was, it’s head was
relatively small, it has no eyes but a wide and full-fanged mouth it bared.
“A greater mimic!” Ser Gwendryck identified the creature.
“Aye, I… am. But not… Just any, greater mimic. A name, I have—Kilsin’dur! Remember
that, the mimic that felled Wredmyn Gurnod of Ravinefort.” The mimic proclaimed.
“Clearly, you are somewhat wise… Kilsin’dur.” Said Ser Hallistaire.
“Aye, indeed… I am, wise… Ser Hallistaire Azecorne.” Replied the abysmal creature.
“You even know our names. I assume you know everyone in here.” Ser Gwendryck
joined in.
“Aye, I do know everyone. From the Kings hiding… At the back, down to ye… Ser
Gwendryck… Eurandor.” Kilsin’dur replied.
“How? How did a wretched being such as you, happen to know our names?” Lord
Ryktorran asked the mimic.
The mimic slithered before answering, letting out a whispering growl and a chuckle.
“Master… because of, Master!” Kilsin’dur said aggressively.
“Tell us who sent you! And we might consider letting you go, Kilsin’dur!” Shouted Ser
Hallistaire.
“Ser Hallistaire… Aye, the Master was right… Fool, are ye.” The mimic laughed. “I,
Kilsin’dur, just ended the life of two… Valuable men of the palace—Ser Hallistaire, only
a weakling, and a fool, would consider letting me go unscathed at this point. The
moment I terrorized the Scholar and decapitated Wredmyn, my fate… Was sealed. I
was fated to die here, Master deemed it so.” Said Kilsin’dur, subtly mocking the Palace
Knight.
“So, Sir Dumonte’s dead.” Said Lord Ryktorran, his anger moved aside for his sadness.
“Aye, he is… Your Highness.” Replied Kilsin’dur.
The four was locked in the conversation. It favored them all; the Palace Knights and
Lord Ryktorran wanted to extract as much information from Kilsin’dur, regarding the
motivation behind all that was happening and Kilsin’dur’s Master. Kilsin’dur on the other
hand, was simply enjoying the time.
“Now, before my blood… Be spilled. My master yearns for you, Realm Lord Ryktorran
Eurandor, to kno–“ Kilsin’dur was not able to finish what he had to say at that moment
as a sword is driven through him from his back. It was Ser Aren, who’ve returned with
reinforcements standing at the gate. He was too late for his comrade.
“For Wredmyn!” cried Ser Aren. He then pulled his sword, it pulled with it the guts of the
mimic. It sent the mimic kneeling. The reinforcements began to move forward but were
signaled by Ser Aren to stop. The mimic shrieked until blood fountained from his gaping
maw. Ser Aren prepared for another strike, Ser Gwendryck halted the strike. The mimic
began gagging, vomiting blood it did. With all of the remaining force within Kilsin’dur, he
regurgitated before the royalties.
It was a severed head—that came deep from Kilsin’dur’s stomach. Disfigured it was.
Immediately, Kilsin’dur hugged the severed head, obscuring it from sight.
Ser Gwendryck, slowly, withdrew his halting order. Ser Aren raised his sword high, he
wanted to slay the creature before him in a single stroke. Before it, Kilsin’dur spoke
again.
“He wanted you to know, that you only… Have, one… Week.” The mimic relayed to
them, the true message.
“One week for what? For what?! Answer me!” Lord Ryktorran screamed at the mimic in
a desperate demand.
“You, will know… right this very moment” Kilsin’dur answered, he was grinning, and with
his remaining strength, the mimic threw the severed head he was hugging at the foot of
Ser Gwendryck. The mimic knelt still, struggling to breath—Kilsin’dur managed to laugh,
for one last time, he did.
Finally, Ser Aren swung his formidable blade at the mimic’s torso. The mimic was
cleaved into two. Ser Hallistaire stabbed the fallen mimic, for good measure. Lord
Ryktorran moved forward, he looked at the mimic, he was disgusted and raging as he
watch Kilsin’dur bleed. Then he looked to Sir Dumonte, and finally, to Ser Wredmyn—
the rage and disgust he felt were washed away by the flood of sorrow. It filled the bulk
of his heart, imploding almost.
“This head… Lord Ryktorran” Ser Gwendryck remarked. He turned the severed head for
everyone to see, clearly noticing something amiss.
Lord Ryktorran turned to him; and upon seeing the severed head, his heart caved in,
finally he succumbed to the storm of sorrow that ravaged him earlier. Two of his loyal
and trusted servants, and now, a loved kin of his.
“No, no, no!” Lord Ryktorran doubted what he saw, what fell upon his mind. The
severed head, was his youngest son. The severed head was rotting, bathed in the
mimic’s acids, it no longer had a jaw—but its remaining features were enough for it to
be recognized as the Prince.
“No! Gwendryck, this might have been another mimic!” Lord Ryktorran said hysterically,
while his hands nearly touching the severed head. In denial, he was. Tears and snot
now pouring. The Realm Lord looked like a child separated from his toy, he was wailing.
The Palace Knights lowered their head, they cannot bear the scene before them—a
father who had lost a child. The Kings at the crescent table gathered near the Realm
Lord. They mourned in silence. They thought that to spoke would be an even greater
atrocity, no matter how good will come of their mouth.
The Realm Lord wiped his tears and his dripping snot with his green and blue robes.
Ser Gwendryck saw it to be the right time to reply. “I am sorry, my Lord. But, mimics can
only shift into objects, other beings they cannot—even greater ones are unable to do so.
Ser Gwendryck offered his knowledge of the foul creature, within him is seething rage
and a harrowing sadness for the Realm Lord, and for his dead nephew. It broke him,
just as he saw how broken the Realm Lord before him. A single tear escaped the
Palace Knight’s right eye.
“Every inch of my body, even my sword, can feel the heavy truth of the mimic’s words.
He even went as far as to kill two of ours—and he, died gladly so; unlike ours. We need
not to send a letter for Myrmidor, or see the city through a crystal sphere; the very act is
the confirmation! Whoever this ‘Master’ that this foul creature served, one thing is
certain—he is declaring war, and crush them to it, we shall!” Ser Gwendryck said, fury
evident in his speech.
“We are deeply sorry for your loss, Your Grace.” Said the Anthenian King Agorix II. Lord
Ryktorran was silent.
“We must punish them, Your Grace! One word, and our armies will march for you! We
shall avenge our fallen.” Said old King Eagen, he seemed bloodthirsty.
“Aye, Your Grace!” The other Kings in their agreement.
Lord Ryktorran was convinced then, now firm on a decision within his mind.
“Ser Gwendryck, call the Generals.”
“My humble Kings, gather your Commanders.”
“Now.” Lord Ryktorran said coldly.
End