Doryn [4] 391Please respect copyright.PENANA0MCqMEt1q1
The Collars that bind us and Swords that set us Free391Please respect copyright.PENANA1C7kGeGayZ
The Iron Eye 391Please respect copyright.PENANAhy3YVgN47O
It’d been five years ago, when the prince was only thirteen when he’d first heard the tale of the Phoenix Men. There had been six of them, only one of them being a Phoenix Woman. He’d escaped to the festival with his brother Loryn and whilst his brother had run off to chase the Dragon Dancers dancing in their twisting silks, Doryn had stayed by the fountain choked with rose petals. An old woman with skin as brown and wrinkled as leather but sweet as Strawberry tea sat by the fountain, and the elderly and young alike sat around to listen to her story.
“Three hundred years ago, five men set out in the Forgotten World. Gyred Blacksteel, Atlas Eirhart, Tebathir Ulthrix, Daichi Illamoto, Brookler Anatori and the she-wolf, Myra the Raven Caller. Arabella of Witchen Eyes led them with the Wanderer’s Star to bay. Eirhart led The Cured, those who had contracted the White Plague but had been mutated by the Wicked Owl. She had twisted their bodies and twisted their minds so that when it was time to set sail for the New World, they turned on their human brothers and sisters and Raven Caller’s wolves. They suffered greatly and the seawaters turned crimson with all three species blood. The brothers won the battle, but Eirhart was gravely wounded and brothers were forced to leave him, despite the fact that he had fought on their side. Arabella died just before they could land in the New World, and they buried her by the Ocean. Merely two years later, a mysterious fleet of ships arrived on the Eastern coast. It was Atlas, leading the Cured right to the New World, having faked his injuries and become a turncoat against his own kind. A slaughter ensued between the races, the Werewolves allying with our people to fight Atlas’s monsters. Eventually we drove them back to the sister continent, Dordathion, an icy wasteland littered with mountains and creatures that to this day, we have not faced. Later, with firm territories established Gyred founded the Blacksteel Kingdom, crowned amongst the Phoenix Men to lead the peoples. The Raven Caller made a peace treaty with the Blacksteel and formed her own clans with elected leaders that scattered amongst the continents, including Dordathion.”
Such a delightful childhood story that still haunted him, a black-blooded piece of history Orovyn would call it. War and blood was all that passed through Doryn’s mind now, waiting for his picture to be taken. The entire royal family had gathered in the rose garden with their guests, the princess Pandora and the much lesser lord Jeryah. The Marquis and Marquess and courtiers of Borynad’s court were gathered in the gardens around the pond littered with swans, attending a tea party held by Doryn’s mother Tatiana. It was these peoples dressed in these fineries and armor that had reminded Doryn of the black blood. It was the way they peered at each other, with eyes so hungry and vice he almost expected a forked tongue to flicker out between their teeth. They talked in higher tongues with voices so sickly sweet the prince could barely stomach it. It made him wonder.
Is the Red Storm like this, do the lords of stone and ash speak with daggers in their words and poison in their tongues? No. They couldn’t possibly. Pandora is from the Red Storm, and she’s no sweet talking serpentess, she reminds me of a warm summers midnight. Not too humid, but relaxing and warm, with a soft breeze to rock you to sleep.
The Photographer, a stout, smiling, middle-aged man who worked for the Early Rabbit, the Capitol’s radio station and newsletter printer had ushered the prince and Pandora up the front, as they were the shortest. Jeryah stood in front of Aboryn on the other side of Pandora, trying to subtly eye Doryn to no avail. Orovyn, Aboryn and Loryn had formed a line behind them, shoulder-to-shoulder with their chests puffed out in an effort to look more masculine than the other. Borynad and Tatiana stood at the very back, the Emperor stiffly holding his wife. To anyone else, his mother would seem at ease, even happy to be there holding her husband so. Yet her wince and taut pain was all too obvious to Doryn. Her close-lipped smile, arms so close to her body and the way that she dug her nails so far to the Emperor’s shoulder that if he wasn’t wearing a padded jerkin blood would be running free down his back and arm. The Emperor held her close, an arm around her waist so tight that Doryn was surprised she could breathe.
The prince still felt sick at the sight or very thought of his father, so to take his mind from such things Doryn placed a hand on the small of Pandora’s back, the other holding the hilt of his rapier.
“Three!” The Photographer called, running behind the camera sitting on the tripod. To his giddiness, Pandora put a hand on his wrist.
“Two!” Her hand gripped his wrist so tight Doryn was taken aback, and shoved his hand away.
“Smile!” Doryn forgot to smile.
For the rest of the day, they toured the palace grounds. Jeryah talked with Orovyn about a multitude of topics over books and Architects and of politics, whilst Gareth entertained himself well enough talking to Pandora’s guardian, a tall, black haired woman of sky blue eyes with broad shoulders and toned arms made to wield the claymore sheathed on her back. All the while, Pandora walked in silence leaving Doryn to awkwardly mumble about the design of her chamber as it was thoughtfully decorated in Ghar’ish fashion. With silks, and dominating reds and whites and open spaces with a long table of wine and fresh fruit.
The prince showed them the lobby, the library, the tower and even the throne room. Orovyn did most of the talking, blabbering on about the craftsmanship and the Architect Braymon that had designed the palace. They even showed the Obsidian Hall, the black scrubbed so that it gleamed against the light flowing through the stained glass windows. Once the tour of the palace had finished, Myrcia, escorted by her guardian twins Patima and Otyma met them in the halls. There had always been something off about those twins, Doryn had found. They always seemed to be agitated by everything and anyone (save Myrcia of course, for whom they had all the time in the world,) but it was the kind of annoyance you could never pinpoint. Like a quiet twitch underneath your skin, that you knew they were angry but you’d never dare accuse them of such.
They were both tall and slender, with hair so pink it reminded Doryn of cotton candy. They both had a haunting beauty, each having blue eyes so clear they were ghost-like, Patima’s hair unlike the other ladies with it short and cut so that it mimicked a mans style, whilst Otyma’s hair was long and tied into a braid that brushed the small of his back.
The twins and Myrcia led Pandora, Jacinta and the young lord Jeryah away to the gardens, leaving Doryn and Gareth by their lonesome. The guardian seemed itchy, as if there was somewhere he’d rather desperately be. Doryn took the hint.
“Well brother, I’m off to rest my head for a while, as last night my sleep was rather disrupted. I trust you’ll aid the guardianship of my engaged?” Doryn said with a raised brow. Gareth smiled and clapped the prince’s shoulder, and practically skipped off in the direction of the rose garden.
“Thank you, brother,” Gareth called.
“No problem, Garry,” Doryn muttered beneath his breath.
The prince in fact had slept soundly that night, even without the need of wine to send him into an easy slumber. Celeste had managed to slip into his chambers in the late hours whilst the palace slept. Yet, before Doryn could ask a single question about his father she was on her knees and his breeches around his ankles. From that moment in the night all thoughts of his family were vacant.
So, instead of napping he fished underneath his bed and fetched his black garb, yet thought twice.
Why should I wear this garb of a common thief? I’ll be king of Red Storm one day, if I wish to leave the palace I shall.
And so, the prince left the palace and fetched Knightmare from the stables. The freckle-faced young stable-boy was hesitant at first, but with a vicious whicker from Knightmare and glare from Doryn, he saddled the mare. He mounted and rode for the Black Gate, only to be stopped by the guards on duty.
“Let me through, my Guardian has other business to attend to,” Doryn called to the Captain Archer atop the spire.
“No Guardian, no passage. Can’t send a detail out either, seems you’ll just have to parade on back to the palace and join the tea party,” Archer smirked. Doryn winced at the chuckles from the others guards. Just as he was about to dismount and kick the doors open himself, he turned round at the sound hoof against the gravel road. A woman of dark skin, only a few shades lighter than Pandora’s with coils of thick raven hair and opal eyes rode atop a chestnut Dutch Warmblood. She rode up beside him with a look to tore him to pieces and put him back together.
“Yelena Emright, I’ll be watching the prince, Blackwood,” She called to guard. The Black Gate opened, and wordlessly, Doryn followed. They rode on, and not until the Wall of Tears came into sight did the prince think of where he was really going. He tugged at Knightmare’s reigns and she came to a halt.
“Who-Who exactly are you?” He asked, lent forward in his saddle slightly. The woman reigned up a few feet ahead.
“Are you deaf? My name has not changed in the last ten minutes yer grace. Yelena Emright, a friend. Well, friend of a friend. I believe you’re well acquainted with Red, you know, blonde hair and golden eyes? I’m on my way to see her now, if you’d like to join me.” Now that he was close, Doryn discovered it was quite obvious she didn’t call the Arabellan Gardens home. Emright wore a hardened leather vest, almost armor like, black material pants made for easy movement and riding, heeled leather shoes and a thick, cotton black trench-coat.
Without waiting for a reply, Emright turned and trotted off for the Wall. And with a heavy sigh, Doryn followed.
The city was at eased, at least for the most part. The news of the Monolith creature had reached the ears of Marksmen, Slum Guards and Sidhe’s alike and rolled from the loose tongues of gossipy fishwives to baker’s daughters to the maids that served the Marquis sipping their imported tea and half-eaten honey cakes. The news had made the men wary, and the fishermen into a panic at the news of their products sudden disappearance. The prince could almost smell the caution in the air, as it was scent he was familiar with. A sickly perfume that each maid that served him wore, despite the fact that Doryn made a point of never looking twice at him. Now that he thought about it, he probably had his father to blame for that.
“So, where is it we’re meeting our mutual friend?” He asked, needing to break the silence that hung loudly in the air.
“Ever heard of the Psychopomps?” Emright asked, not bothering to look back at him.
“Once or twice. There were that gang being hunted by the MUNC right?” He replied, wondering what it had to do with anything.
“Tsk, not a gang. They were investigators. Rumor has it they called a certain joint by the name of the Fallen Angel home. That’s where we’re headed,” Emright said with a wave of her hand.
Doryn scoffed. “Yeah, rumor also has it that place is run by a freak.”
That’s when Emright turned round with a white-toothed smile, as if she found it all so amusing.
“Trust me, boy. No person could run a place like that and not be a freak,” She assured him.
The Fallen Angel was the kind of place a normal man could visit, yet when he returned, blind as night without the moon, he would be able to recognize the place purely by smell and sound. A miniature looking version of the Black Gates dressed in ivy and tiny white flowers rattled slightly at the sounds coming from within. They stood before a clay hallway where iron-studded doors of the same size and shape stood at the end, the last defense against whatever lay within.
A woman with matted, wild hair the color of a stormy eye and a grouchy frown to match lent beside the gate, a foot hitched up on the wall and appeared to be chewing some kind of strong-smelling tobacco.
“Warren.” Emright greeted, and the girl opened the gate, looking Doryn up and down. The prince had raised the cowl of his white hood, but with a look that he knew unsettled some he gave her a sharp glance with his stormy eyes.
Emright pushed open one of the twin doors, whilst Doryn heaved open the other. The moment they stepped inside, Doryn couldn’t quite process what had happened. He wasn’t sure whether he’d had some sort of stroke and he’d passed out and was merely dreaming. The world has turned black and white. All except the dancers, their little clothing glowing bright blues, reds and purples as they danced on the tables and raised circular platforms, some in cages. The band playing on the stage up back were only illuminated by their neon blue coats and vests, the lead singer smiling as he sung, his voice low and smooth as a dark, thick brew of black coffee. He sang a song Doryn didn’t know, and his voice was somehow projected through the large, gold horns spotted around the black and white room. To the right of the room by the roof, there was a metal rafter, a section of the establishment Doryn somehow knew was entirely blocked off from regular patrons.
How did he know this? Perhaps it was the two guards at the spiral staircase, or maybe the freak leant against the railing watching the dancing, singing and drunken men lounging about in the leather booths.
The moment Doryn looked to him, the freak stared right back. The man was every shade of grey, and was dark yet aglow at the same time. He was handsome, that was for sure, yet haunting. Slit eyes like those of a cats followed Doryn’s every step as he shouldered his way through the crowd. Hair slightly wavy, a sharp jaw shaded with stubble made this man who’s own eyes speared right through the prince, smoke from his cigarette snaking through his teeth, the orange of the butt glowing against the grey.
“Who’s that?” Doryn asked Emright who led him through the crowd to the far corner booth.
“No-one you need worry about,” She responded bluntly.
Doryn grunted and sat down in the booth by her side. Directly across from Doryn, there she sat, clad in her crimson cloak. Her blonde waves, crimson cloak, red-painted lips and amber eyes were all that were colored, all else grey.
“It’s good to see again, my good sir,” Doryn said with a half-smile. He was hesitant, unsure of himself after Pandora’s cold retraction. Yet he wasn’t disappointed.
“And you too, my lady,” Red smiled, the dimples in her cheeks creasing perfectly. Emright motioned to the grey bartender, a red bow tied round his neck. Moments later, a tray of shot-glasses filled with glowing purple was at their table. Doryn took a glass and raised it, “To my father.”
Emright and Red clinked their glasses with his, saying in semi-unison, “To your father.”
For a moment, Doryn rested his head in his hand, and let himself wallow in the music and grey. He took another shot-glass, but before raising it to his lips he raised it in cheers again.
“To the emperor.”
Red and Emright did the same.
The prince raised yet another glass.
“To the fucking Emperor. May he be treated as he treats his city, bent over something rough, with someone pounding his face into the dirt,” Doryn raised a glass and threw it back, the alcohol rushing to his head. At that, Red and Emright truly smiled and sent a cheer up. After a another two drinks, Red put a red-gloved hand on the table, and traced a finger around the rim of the glass.
“I’ve an idea of where we might go to entertain ourselves for the evening,” Red suggested with a sly smile. It seemed Doryn had made a habit out of following strange women around the city with an empty mind and walled off heart, yet this time it served to point out he was staggeringly drunk. Red pulled him along with Emright close behind, the only one of them not tipsy. The Fallen Angel itself was in the Industrial District, but Red led them further into the very bowels of the district. Smoke from the chimneys of the mass-producing factories checked the air, and lifeless soil was packed firmly between the cobblestones crunching beneath their boots. The scent of cigarette smoke mingled with the smoke from the chimneys from between the fingers of scantily clad women lent in the mouth of the alleys and from between the yellow teeth of men with brass-guns and swords strapped to their hips.
Doryn had the cowl of his white cloak pulled over his head, yet even though the colours had returned to the world it still seemed to be only greys and blacks.
Red led them into a back-alley riddled with rust and filth. Neither whores or dealers lined the alleyway, it was deserted save the man on the concrete ramp watching them from above lent against a railing with eyes like those of the freaks, but they glowed yellow. Around his neck seemed to be some kind silver collar.
What the-
The man blinked, and the yellow glow was gone. Doryn shrugged it off at his tipsiness. Red guided them down a flight of stairs and knocked on the iron door. The eye-slot slid open and two brown eyes squinted suspiciously. Red tucked her hands into her pockets and lent forward.
“Anything howling tonight?” She asked. The man on the other side grunted in reply and closed the slot. A few moments later, the iron door gave a groan as it slid open. A man nearly tall as the concrete roof above them ushered them inside. They followed them through a hallways lit by yellow, flickering lights and ever so slowly, the sound of a roaring crowd grew louder.
“Where…where are we going?” Doryn mumbled.
“Ever been dog fighting?” Emright grinned. Doryn gave her a puzzled look. Yet the moment they stepped foot into the arena, his confusion turned to awe. In what seemed to be a giant underground warehouse an arena lay, seats circling a giant pit fenced off with barbed wire. The seats were filled with a roaring crowd, clearly crying for some blood to be spilt. Over golden horns, larger versions of the ones in The Fallen Angel, a voice boomed, supposedly the host of the fight.
“WELCOME, LEPERS AND GARBAGE. YOU’VE SEEN MAN FIGHT MAN, MAN FIGHT BEAR, BUT NOW YOU’LL PAY WITNESS TO A FIGHT BETWEEN NEVER SEEN BEFORE. A FIGHT BETWEEN BROTHERS, A BATTLE OF FANG AND CLAW. A BATTLE BETWEEN WEREWOLVES.”
At that, the portcullis inside the arena rose. Doryn sat between Emright and Red on a giant concrete step. He didn’t blink once as he watched the shadows shift, and two giant yellow eyes glowed from the darkness. It stepped from the darkness and into the pit, a wolfish creature of a dark brown pelt. It was the size of a building, almost as tall as the barbed wire keeping it in, its tail long yet seemed strong enough to slam a full-grown man into a splat on the wall, and it’s fore-paws were more shaped like hands, yet long and clawed, designed to pick its enemies up and crush them like an insect. It seemed to be able to stand on its hinds, but also walk on all-fours as a wolf might, its muzzle curled up to reveal its fangs and a terrible scar ran down its back, pink and so deep no fur had grown back.
Another wolf stepped out from the opposite portcullis, its pelt white as snow and face marred with scars. Where its eyes might have been, only scars remained.
“ARE YOU READY?!” The voice boomed.
The werewolves braced themselves, and that’s when Doryn noticed the silver collars around their necks. Silver…the same glint…the same as what that man wore around his neck…with yellow eyes. Hmm, first werewolf I ever met. Creepy. Monstrous. Scary. Amazing.
Doryn’s heart raced, his palms beneath his gloves growing sweaty.
“Ready?” Red whispered, smiling.
“FIGHT!” The moment the host roared that word through the horns, the wolves clashed. In all his life, Doryn had never heard such a roar that the two werewolves sent echoing amongst the arena. The crowd roared in response, the two wolves tumbled and writhed, biting and clawing at every inch they could get a hold of. Thrice their tails lashed at the barbed wire, breaking the fence in sections as they ore bloody strips off each other.
Despite the snowy wolf’s lack of sight, it made up for it with fury and speed against the larger brown wolf.
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“Is it just me, or is the brown wolf holding back?” Doryn said to Red over the roar of the werewolves and crowd. Red didn’t bother replying, only lent in further, gold eyes narrowed in concentration. The white wolf fought with relentless fury, and barreled itself into the brown wolfs chest, slamming it onto its back. That’s when the brown wolf tired of the game. The white wolf leapt for its throat, and the brown wolf speared its claws into the white wolfs sides. Holding it in place for but a moment, the brown wolf arched its neck ripped the whites throat out. The white shuddered for a moment or two, then went limp.
The crowd went up in a rage, cheering wildly. Doryn ignored the others and continued to watch the wolf. Almost gently, the brown wolf lay the white wolf down. He hid the other wolf, but Doryn was almost sure he saw the white shrink, way, way back down to the size of a man. The brown wolf gently cradled the man, white hair, naked with white hair and bore the same wounds as his wolf form. He seemed to almost mourn his fallen brother.
The prince could’ve almost sworn he heard the host speak over the horn, over the crowd’s cheers.
“Sentimental monsters.”
They left. Most of the attendants poured up and out into the alleyway they’d come from. Yet, something stood out to the prince. A group of men stood around on the ramp where the wolf had been before. In a place like this, it wasn’t unusual for a group of suspicious looking suspects to be standing around, cloaked and whispering. Yet, Doryn couldn’t help but wonder why one of his fathers courtiers, Lord Rew was standing amongst the circle of vagabonds, a hood raised and his expression cold as the soul reflected in his eyes. With a sharp intake of breath, Doryn turned and headed down the opposite way, Red and Emright following. Before they could round the corner out onto the street, Doryn took Red’s arm.
“Go on, I need to talk with Red for a moment,” He motioned to Emright. She exchanged a look with Red and left them.
For the most part, the alleyway was clear of anyone but them. Two hooded figures, one in a cloak as white as an eyeless snowy wolf and another in a cloak as crimson as the blood that rained from his neck. Both of their cowls were raised, so all anyone would see is one young man holding a young woman against the alley wall, so nothing out of the ordinary. Doryn put a hand on her shoulder, and rested his forehead on the cool concrete an inch from her head. He positioned his mouth so that his whispers would slip from between his lips and crawl into her ear.
“What was that?” He purred.
“What, that little doggie spat?” She said in a laugh.
“Werewolves are real?” Doryn said quickly, his tone prickly.
“Oh, they’re very real. And easy enough to catch if you know how,” She said, her lip curling upwards in a promise of a devious smile.
Doryn took a moment to breathe. Those tarot cards Rheymar gave me…could all of it be true?
The MUNC had been created for a reason, Doryn knew that much. To hunt monsters that posed a threat…yet, most agreed that those monsters were long dead. One night, Doryn had found himself with nothing much else to do, as trying to sleep proved a fruitless task. So instead he took sips from his Maidens Kiss bottle and paced the length of his chamber. One the sixth lap of his room and third goblet of wine, he remembered the cards. Beautiful pieces, the prince couldn’t help but admit, holding the cards against the milky moonlight. Doryn had sat beneath his windowsill, the bottle by his side as he’d abandoned the goblet, and a candle for light. He sprawled the cards before him, and examined them one by one. The majority of them had told of creatures Doryn had already knew of from the fairy tale books he’d read a dozen times over with Oro. Yet others…well they painted pictures of creatures that made the prince wish dearly that none of these were real. Yet, the history that had been merged with myth woke with a roar. A roar that had resonated with that of the werewolf Doryn had watched die.
“They’re real and all we do is turn them on each other for some sick fucking entertainment?” Doryn spat. Red smiled faintly.
“Ah, is that a hint of consciousness I detect?” She jabbed.
“Bah. Only a piece of human fucking decency,” The prince hissed.
“But they’re not human.”
“Are you trying to defend what happened back there? I watched the white wolf turn back. I watched the scarred one mourn him. It’s sick.” Doryn said, pressing his forehead further into the concrete as if trying to push the thoughts and repeating scenes of the life leaving the man’s body.
“You talk as if it’s the residents of the Industrial District arranging these fights,” Red said, coking her head slightly.
“What –” Doryn began, before Red’s gloved hand came to a sudden rest at his jaw. Gentle as a mother nursing her babe, Red shifted his gaze to meet her irises of a vengeful star, bright, burning and screaming at the idiocies of the night-black surrounding it, distasteful of the dull rainbow of greys.
“Before you shout and wail of the injustices of the peoples of this city, mayhap take a moment to realize who the real enemy is,” Red shouted in a whisper.
~ ~ ~391Please respect copyright.PENANA3SUGAzTxYE
The rest of the day trudged on slowly after that. Emright had escorted him back to the palace and in parting reassured that whenever Doryn need venture into the city without a leash tied round his neck to call on her. The mention of a leash had made a muscle in his jaw twitch.
To take his mind off such trivial matters, Doryn had sought out his brothers, and found them sparring in the private courtyard. It was perhaps the quietest, most serene combat-training grounds to exist. It was fenced off from the rest of the outside grounds by trestles woven with vines spotted with white roses connected with a series of white marble pillars forming a rectangle paved with smooth stone designed for sword-play training. Aboryn was scarce of course, having an endless amount of meetings and appointments to attend to. Oro sat off to the side, bags under his eyes, his fingers fumbling with the pages of his textbook as he turned them one by one, a stack of books tagged with notes by his side.
Doryn had thrown his cloak in a heap to the side, and swapped his disgust for his silver-hilted rapier. He crossed blades with Lorry, who proved faster and better yet more agile than his younger brother at the swift-footed dance. Doryn found himself with a lack of thought as to what attack he should forward with. Instead, he attacked with a flurry of swipes and jabs, his pushed back disgust and frustrations pouring into his arms and exploding with each swing. Loryn just watched Doryn tire himself with his usual gleeful smirk that all of the Blacksteel children had apparently inherited.
“Brother, you should really get some rest,” Loryn said to Oro who seemed half-asleep whilst side-stepping an attack to the left from Doryn.
He stumbled in the place where Loryn had been half a second ago, and skidded to a halt. Doryn rested his hands on his knees, stopped for but a moment to catch his breath.
“How…is it…you got so good to best me so…?” He said between deep breaths. Loryn tapped the point of his rapier on Doryn’s chin, “Our dear big brother Aboryn taught me, who was taught by our dear father.”
Doryn snorted in contempt and stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow. Without warning, he swung at Loryn who glanced the blow off with the same ease as swatting a fly.
“He isn’t very good at pretending not to have a favorite,” Doryn grunted. Their swords continued to clash, and the fourth-born seemed to put a tad more thought into his steps.
“Heh, don’t forget the ridiculous names,” Oro brought up, fatigue slurring his words.
“You think Orovyn is ridiculous? You clearly haven’t met my cousin Nabbroddrovik. We call him Drovik for short,” A mysterious voice cut in, belonging to a strangers footsteps against the flat-stone. Strange as it might seem, Doryn knew his siblings footsteps. He could even guess whether it was a kitchen wench, serving maiden, lady-in-waiting or guard that walked on the other side of his twin doors. In his younger days, from around five to nine when the prince was innocent to the nulling seduction of wine and he still suffered from his difficulty to sleep, Doryn would sit by his doors and listen. He was never quite sure what he was listening for, but the footsteps of his brothers and the servants echoing in the hallways acted as a strange lullaby his mother never sang. That was until Doryn had turned ten, and Oro had taken him from his marble cage and they’d gone to the library. Where, despite the sleep clear as anything in his older brother’s eyes, Oro had stayed awake with his little brother and read countless fairy tales to him. One after the other he read aloud in hushed whispers by candlelight until the candlestick was no more than an inch of wax and the young Doryn finally stopped running from sleep.
Doryn’s grip around the hilt of his sword tightened.
“Ah, Lord Jeryah, we’re honored for you to have joined us. Though, I’m afraid we’re not doing anything terribly excited, a mere light spar,” Loryn greeted the young lord. He was handsome, that was for sure. Perhaps more pleasant on the eyes than Doryn would ever admit, with skin dark as Pandora’s and the same amber eyes, yet they lacked the spearing spark that the princess’s wielded. His hair was a shade lighter brown, thick and tied up into a bun. Jeryah raised his brows with a grin that made Doryn itch.
“Oh, a light spar? Judging from the armor of sweat my lord Doryn is sporting, I’d think this would be quite the challenge,” The young foreign lord quipped. Loryn displayed no signs of apparent annoyance, only the fact that his rapier was now sheathed, and he held his fingers awkwardly as if his hands plainly needed something to do than hang loosely at his side.
“ – Are you looking for a challenge…my lord?” Doryn said abruptly with a twirl of his rapier, not giving his dare a single sentence of thought. Jeryah titled his head ever so slightly, the grin to penned across his thin lips and with a slight nod of his pointed chin and sharp jaw he unhitched himself from the white pillar he’d been leaning against and stepped forward.
“Might I borrow your sword? I’ll take good care of it, and I won’t be needing it for long,” Jeryah promised to Loryn, whom after a moment of hesitation, unstrapped and tossed his sheathed rapier to the young lord. Doryn did his best to wipe the sweat from his face, and readied himself in a battle stance, sword raised. Jeryah faced him side-on, no stance, not even his sword raised in a defensive or offensive manner. He only watched Doryn with a lazy gaze, like a mountain lion might look at a chick after it’s already eaten its mother, blood splattered carelessly across its muzzle.
“Show me a challenge, my prince.”
Doryn was the first to swing. Jeryah raised his sword and met the irate-fueled blow head-on, the force vibrating through the metal. With their blades crossed the sharp of their blades grating up in down at the push from both wielders. Their eyes were level, despite the few inches Jeryah had on Doryn. With a blade in hand and muscles tensed, the illusion and wall of condescending indifference had crumbled and plain agitation and the tired corpse of patience stood stark naked in his amber eyes. Doryn made a point of flexing his own agitation in his blue eyes. His navy hair was tussled and was only hindrance as far as Doryn was concerned, the way strands hung over his eyes and slicked to the back his neck and tickled his ears.
What’s your problem, lordling? Doryn hissed through his glare. In his way of reply, Jeryah heaved forward, throwing Doryn’s sword from his grip and clattering on the stone. The prince danced backwards out of Jeryah’s swords reach and retrieved his own. He braced his left foot behind and used his right to propel his counter, lashing forward with a central swipe. Like this, they danced back and forth, left to right whilst Oro and Loryn watched on.
The ring of steel was the only song they knew and the only sound that need be heard. That was, until Jeryah began to pick up the pace, his strikes landing where Doryn least thought they might and at a speed he could only just match.
Any flaw in his defense, any misstep that I can break through-
Doryn’s thought was cut short when Jeryah broke almost every rule of sword-play the prince had been taught, and stepped forward. Doryn was so taken aback that he held his sword awkwardly so that the point didn’t meet Jeryah’s stomach. Instead, Jeryah’s blade-point came so close to Doryn’s hand that he drew back, yet his sword still remained extended. Everything slowed, Doryn’s heartbeat fastened and Jeryah retraced the exact same swing as he’d done before, but reversed.
Reversed, so that its blade connected with Doryn’s rapier and shattered the blade. Like broken glass the pieces of the blade rained down on the rock floor. Jeryah had skidded to a halt by him, and rested on his haunches. Sweat beaded down the lords temples, and he leaned in close.
“Not all of us have weaknesses, boy. Sometimes you have to make your own breaks in their defense.”
~ ~ ~
There was neither enough wine nor fairy tales to send Doryn to sleep that night… that much he knew. Lucky for him, it was only noon. And, he had a visitor. The prince had been sitting in his bed, still fully clothed with his feet up on the backboard. The royal healer had patched up the cut Jeryah had gracefully gifted him. Yet already he’d used his teeth to tear the bandage off, and semi-consciously chewed at the wound, preventing the blood from clotting send crimson droplets running down his lips, chin and racing down his alabaster neck. That was, until a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Doryn said, spitting a mouthful of blood and spittle onto the floor. To his surprise, the Crimson Knight stepped through the black oaken door.
“My prince,” was all he need say.
Doryn rode his Knightmare whilst The Crimson Knight rode a white stallion painted in red war paint, thick strokes of blood-red running symmetrical down its barrel chest, sides and down its snout. Aside from the horse itself and the paint, there was neither armor nor glamour adorning his mount, much unlike his fellow knight’s. But such was the nature of his work. For the most part, they rode in silence to the Black Gate.
“You know, there’s something I’ve never understood about you,” Doryn said, hesitant as he was unsure whether the Knight may actually reply. There was a moment of such silence, only broken the tick of the cogs turning in the Crimson Knights head.
“If you wish to ask a question you need only ask.”
Doryn’s Adams apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, clearing his throat.
“I’ve never really understood why. Why would anyone choose this kind of work? What could choose this kind of life?” he asked.
Another moment of silence. The Knight reigned his horse to a halt and dismounted. Doryn followed.
“Your job isn’t to take an interest in mine. It’s not within normality for a prince to understand the nature of his servants work.” The Crimson Knight said, continuing down the gravel path.
“Is it your place to decide what I take an interest in?” Doryn quipped back. The Knight came to a stop, and did not bother to reply or utter a word, only look up.
The prince felt his breath catch in his throat, feeling it choke and die like a drowned animal. He looked up to the spikes mounted high atop the Black Gates, and found himself looking at the severed heads of Archer Blackwood and Tara Goldburn mounted on those spikes.
The Crimson Knight looked to him and said, “No man chooses this life. The Sword chooses the Executioner.” 391Please respect copyright.PENANAbluwRo1FFZ