His lungs burned, begging – pleading for air. But he couldn’t stop, not now. He ran, his legs crying out in pain as he kept up the sprinting pace he had kept for miles now. He had no idea as to how far he’d gone, or how long it’s taken. All he knew was that someone must hear his words. The man, garbed in the dark colors of a ranger, ran through the trees at a dead run, panting and aching in places he didn’t know could ache. Snow crunched under his pounding boots, trees – pine, mainly – whizzed past him unnoticed. He was in the thick of it, running through the broad forest of Lockwood for hours. The largest forest in the Realm, and he was barely halfway through.
A brown coat billowed behind him, the bitter wind doing nothing for him as he ran. His gloves were worn and stained darkly, his legs flying underneath thick leather trousers with his tough boots pounding over the ground. He was warm, but only just so. Across his back was an empty quiver, his bow long since broken, and a sheathed sword bobbed at his hip. His hood was thrown up, but wisps of dark hair escaped the confines of the wool covering. He spared a glance over his shoulder, but he saw nothing, his dark eyes seeing emptiness and hearing only silence. He could’ve been handsome except for the debilitating scar running across his face making his left eye colorless and an eerie white. But you never see them when they chase you… The tired ranger thought, his feet pounding as fast as they could as he ran.
Eerie calls echoed behind him, flickers of motion at the edges of his eyes, his heart beating faster despite the exertion. He felt it, a coldness that had nothing to do with winter, at his back. He spun, his sword leaping from its sheath as arcane words exploded from his mouth. Vines shot through the air and caught his “feeling” in mid-leap. Dangling just feet from him was a grotesque version of humanity: Sickly pale skin, a few wisps of hair decorating its head, with eyes completely black and a gaping mouth full of fangs and sizzling saliva. Hands tipped in long talons thrashed to get at him, but nature did not allow this abomination to reach its Caller. With a snarl, the sword swung up and arced down, shattering the creatures head from its neck. Gouts of dark blood sprayed from the decapitated corpse. But it will not stay dead for long… He thought, keeping down the bile rising to his throat as he spun around and continued on.
It seemed ages before the trees began to thin, and before the bedraggled Royal Ranger stood his destination: The capitol city of Ran’Vvarden, the home of High King Elberith and the legendary Ghost Legion. He breathed a sigh of relief, but saw just how many miles more he must run. With a groan of aching muscles and a whimper of fear, he took off running once more…
A grizzled man, his dark hair peppered with gray and covered in a simple crown of platinum and gold, leaned over a board of chess. He wore rich clothing of dark red and dark brown, a long tunic of burgundy emblazoned with the emblem of the High King: A white eagle, wings spread dynamically, on a field of red. Black trousers covered his legs and boots covered in enough silver to barely show the leather beneath. Chainmail lay underneath his tunic, covering the long sleeved shirt underneath. A wrinkled hand scratched the thick beard across his chin and the mustache above his pursed lips as he debated to himself. Gleaming eyes of the purist blue ran over the board over and over, running strategy over in his head.
“Give up yet?” came his opponent, getting a snort of derision from the older man as he deftly slid his pawn into the spot previously containing a bishop, knocking it off the board. A broad grin split his face. “Not yet, boy.” Came the deep throated reply, High King Elberith grinning towards his opponent. A younger man sat across from him, ebon hair streaked with locks of crimson, wearing a simple tunic of white with gold fringe and black leather pants. His feet were clad in tough leather boots, his arms muscular but not so much as to be grotesque. Eyes matching those across from him, he had a broad smirk on his face. Crown Prince Alder looked at the board briefly – at least compared to his opponent – and lifted a knight and brought it closer to his father’s king. “Check.” He said, his eyes sparkling as he looked at his father. The king’s brow furrowed in surprise as he looked at the board again, his mouth opening to complain. His words were cut short as the broad door at the end of the room was thrown open, the Knight Commander Brandt striding in before a pair of armed soldiers carried an unconscious ranger.
The King burst to his feet, rising with a groan in surprise and astonishment. “What happened?!” He asked, seeing the blood on the unconscious man and the dirt over his clothing. Commander Brandt bowed quickly, saying: “My King, this man came to the front gates almost dead from exhaustion. He had this in his hands.” His voice shook his fear and tension as he raised a rolled parchment towards his liege. The parchment was snatched from his hand, the king hurriedly unrolling it and reading it’s contents. His face paled, the blood rushing from his face in terror and astonishment. Prince Alder had stood as well, his eyes shifting from the Knight Commander to his father quickly. “T-t-t-he Dragonfires have g-g-g-g-one out…” came the whispered words from the High King. Silence reigned in the castle at those spoken words.
Lord Arimor Darkheart · Sat Apr 09, 2011 @ 11:03pm · 0 Comments |