Talleth stood back to bask in the attention that was being lavished upon him. After all these years of hiding, it felt good to be the center of events, the person to whom ever eye was drawn. It was very different to his usual modus operandi of moving unseen and invisible.
“I see that you’ve figured it out Cerion.” He congratulated, “pity that it won’t help you.”
Elstridge had been frozen due to his startlement, but quickly he regained his wits. Casting a glance at Orion, he straightened. “Guards!” the Prince bellowed.
There was a sharp ring as the the Honor Guard drew their swords, united as one man and began to advance on the interrupting Photographer. The nobles began to pull back, but at the same time, morbid fascination with impending bloodshed kept their eyes riveted to the dais.
“No!” commanded, Cerion, the tone of authority clear in his voice. “Your swords can not hurt him, and your lives will be forfeit should you try. Stand down Captain!”
Hesitantly the Guard looked to their leader who in turn looked to his Prince.
Elstridge’s pride fought for a moment with his good sense, but a glance at Cerion’s face made him reconsider. A wave of his hand and the Prince also began to back away.
“Not so fast… brother” said Talleth.
Suddenly a circle of bright beams encircled the prince, bringing an abrupt end to his attempted escape.
To Orion’s eyes, those beams emitted a strong wave of heat. Even as Elstridge reached out to touch the beams, the Embermage knew that to do so was death. “Don’t!” he shouted. Elstridge gave him one startled look and stopped in mid reach.
Talleth looked mildly surprised. “You realize what they are boy?” He asked, eyes narrowing.
Suddenly directly in front of him, a source of heat began to form. To his strangely dual vision, it seemed that it came from highly concentrated light. In that moment he realized what power a Photographer had.
“Light is energy and intense light can generate intense heat.” He replied calmly.
Talleth laughed, “well done Orion! Now feel the pain which mere light can bring.”
The heat became overwhelming and bright beam of laser like intensity shot out towards Orion.
Light is faster then any other force on earth, even faster then the fastest brain speed.
However Cerion had already considered this possibility. As the beam entered an area not a foot from Orion’s body, it began to distort and lose its focus.
Talleth noticed and the beam faded. With a shrug, he dismissed the shield of incredibly moist air that Cerion had created.
“You can stop one beam Hydromancer… but you can’t stop a hundred. At my thought, everyone in this Ballroom will die.”
Cerion grit his teeth, but then Azrael stepped forward. “However one thought from me… and you will also perish, Photographer… or did you not notice the bonds of air which could rip your body to shreds.”
Talleth’s right eye twitched slightly as he attempted to move his arms. Locked as he was in a cocoon of air, he wasn’t having much luck.
“I’ll remember this Azrael; I still have time to complete my mission.”
Light erupted without warning between the four weather arts users, causing Azrael to lose her concentration for a split second. In that moment, Talleth vanished.
Cerion’s eye’s narrowed. “Orion, can you see him?” he asked his younger brother, aware of the heat sense.
“No,” replied Orion, looking slightly puzzled. “He simply vanished.”
“I was afraid of that.” Sighed the older brother.
“Hydromancer Cerion!” barked the Captain of the Guard. Cerion spun around. “The Prince, he’s gone!”
Orion also had turned and stared at the place where Elstridge had been but moments before. This was very bad.
***
Monday, June 11, 2007
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Secrets revealed!
His head hurt, that much was readily apparent before his eyes opened. Waves of alternating numbness and aching pulsed through his skull. He most certainly had a concussion.
However when it was when he tried to sit up that he really understood just how much pain he was in.
“ARGH!”
Talleth collapsed back into his make shift bed, and even that motion was enough to set his skull pounding once more and the room spinning more then it had before.
A room?
‘Where am I?’ he wondered, looking around at the strange implements and books that filled the round office. Looking around, his eyes landed on a plaque on the wall. It read.
“To Cerion WaveRunner, on his appointment to Council of the Keep.”
Talleth began to laugh, even as that action brought immense pain to his head. It was obvious now what had happened, and ironic in the extreme. He was almost certain that neither Cerion nor Orion knew who he was, nor what it meant… yet it was blind luck that had brought them together for that first time. Well, that and some slippery roof tiles.
Even as the pain began to reside ever so slowly, Talleth wondered how he survived the fall from such a high tower. Nevertheless, he wasn’t one to question good fortune, or the provision of God, and he attempted to stand.
That proved to be disastrous, however on the third go he managed to remain standing without crumpling to the floor. The clock on the wall said he was late. He didn’t have much time.
***
“Really your Highness?” questioned Tricolum, looking with bemused surprise at the young man. “This is most unusual, would now really be the best time?”
Elstridge took a deep breath, and nodded. “I’m afraid so old friend, I would speak to those gathered as is my right.”
Tricolum nodded slowly, “that it is. Speak on good Prince.”
Elstridge stood to address the people gathered in the Ballroom. Their faces were alive with curiosity as they wondered what this quiet young Prince had to share with them. Most thought it merely a reaction to his nerves, but some, including Queen Elmaria, had worried frowns on their faces.
“Fellow citizens of Wilderia, I am Elstridge Liam Royale, son of Elmaria and Elton, Nephew to the late King Elliam who died three years ago in a rock slide along with my father. He had not married, nor had he any children of his own, and so I was named heir apparent to ascend in my 18th year. Thus I was given the middle name Liam to trace my lineage through our King.”
Elstridge paused; so far what he had said was common knowledge. Now he had reached the point of no return. If he continued, it would forever alter his life, and indeed it may change the destiny of his country. Still, his Uncle had made his wishes clear, and he was the only one who could make it happen.
“What you may not know, is that my Uncle, your late King, had adopted a son to succeed him.”
Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd and soon after that cries of indignation and denial. Soon the Ballroom was abuzz like the sound of a thousand locusts as people discussed this new development.
Elstridge raised his hand, and silence slowly returned. He continued slowly, trying hard not to rush through this speech that he had rehearsed for months.
“The King had told me this several months before his accident, when I was but a 15 year old boy. It is no secret that I had not wanted to ascend the throne, and he told me that such would not be the case. His true heir would have been presented to the country on HIS 18th birthday, which is 1 year gone. His name was or is…”
Rather ironically and very suddenly a bright light began to pulsate behind the Prince. Startled, the Prince spun around. There in the center of that light stood a young man, barely a year older then Elstridge, aglow with white light.
The assembled nobles stared…
“My name is Talleth!”
***
Upon hearing Elstridge’s confession, Orion’s first response had been outrage and betrayal, followed rather quickly by guilt for such thoughts. He could only imagine the strain of hiding such a secret for the past years, especially in the arguments that his friend always seemed to have with his mother.
Even so, the quick witted young man had proceeded to move closer to his friend. Orion knew how people thought, and the flashpoint temper that a mob could have. If this flustered enough people, things could get ugly.
For once wishing that Azrael was around to give him a lift to the throne room, he still managed to nimbly squeeze through the press of people, all the while listening to Elstridge’s explanation. But then his friend stopped, even as Orion was hunched between two massive knights. However even he noticed the bright light and stood up straight to see what was happening. He was a mere 5 meters away, but already he knew that it was too late.
***
Cerion started from his seat in the balcony, staring at the glowing light.
“Photographer!” he hissed, mind going back to all the knowledge that he had learnt about these hated sorcerers.
“Azrael!” he called, no longer the bumbling and vain young man that he was when he could afford to be.
Azrael smiled. She loved it when her fiancé was like this. With skillful weaves she picked him up, and sent him catapulting towards the throne along with herself. Even as she caught them both in a net of air and dropped into a crouch at the foot of the throne, Orion wormed his way next to them.
“What’s going on Cer?” He asked, his voice cracking slightly.
Cerion’s voice was grim and determined. “It’ll be alright Orion, I know how to deal with a Photographer.”
***
However when it was when he tried to sit up that he really understood just how much pain he was in.
“ARGH!”
Talleth collapsed back into his make shift bed, and even that motion was enough to set his skull pounding once more and the room spinning more then it had before.
A room?
‘Where am I?’ he wondered, looking around at the strange implements and books that filled the round office. Looking around, his eyes landed on a plaque on the wall. It read.
“To Cerion WaveRunner, on his appointment to Council of the Keep.”
Talleth began to laugh, even as that action brought immense pain to his head. It was obvious now what had happened, and ironic in the extreme. He was almost certain that neither Cerion nor Orion knew who he was, nor what it meant… yet it was blind luck that had brought them together for that first time. Well, that and some slippery roof tiles.
Even as the pain began to reside ever so slowly, Talleth wondered how he survived the fall from such a high tower. Nevertheless, he wasn’t one to question good fortune, or the provision of God, and he attempted to stand.
That proved to be disastrous, however on the third go he managed to remain standing without crumpling to the floor. The clock on the wall said he was late. He didn’t have much time.
***
“Really your Highness?” questioned Tricolum, looking with bemused surprise at the young man. “This is most unusual, would now really be the best time?”
Elstridge took a deep breath, and nodded. “I’m afraid so old friend, I would speak to those gathered as is my right.”
Tricolum nodded slowly, “that it is. Speak on good Prince.”
Elstridge stood to address the people gathered in the Ballroom. Their faces were alive with curiosity as they wondered what this quiet young Prince had to share with them. Most thought it merely a reaction to his nerves, but some, including Queen Elmaria, had worried frowns on their faces.
“Fellow citizens of Wilderia, I am Elstridge Liam Royale, son of Elmaria and Elton, Nephew to the late King Elliam who died three years ago in a rock slide along with my father. He had not married, nor had he any children of his own, and so I was named heir apparent to ascend in my 18th year. Thus I was given the middle name Liam to trace my lineage through our King.”
Elstridge paused; so far what he had said was common knowledge. Now he had reached the point of no return. If he continued, it would forever alter his life, and indeed it may change the destiny of his country. Still, his Uncle had made his wishes clear, and he was the only one who could make it happen.
“What you may not know, is that my Uncle, your late King, had adopted a son to succeed him.”
Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd and soon after that cries of indignation and denial. Soon the Ballroom was abuzz like the sound of a thousand locusts as people discussed this new development.
Elstridge raised his hand, and silence slowly returned. He continued slowly, trying hard not to rush through this speech that he had rehearsed for months.
“The King had told me this several months before his accident, when I was but a 15 year old boy. It is no secret that I had not wanted to ascend the throne, and he told me that such would not be the case. His true heir would have been presented to the country on HIS 18th birthday, which is 1 year gone. His name was or is…”
Rather ironically and very suddenly a bright light began to pulsate behind the Prince. Startled, the Prince spun around. There in the center of that light stood a young man, barely a year older then Elstridge, aglow with white light.
The assembled nobles stared…
“My name is Talleth!”
***
Upon hearing Elstridge’s confession, Orion’s first response had been outrage and betrayal, followed rather quickly by guilt for such thoughts. He could only imagine the strain of hiding such a secret for the past years, especially in the arguments that his friend always seemed to have with his mother.
Even so, the quick witted young man had proceeded to move closer to his friend. Orion knew how people thought, and the flashpoint temper that a mob could have. If this flustered enough people, things could get ugly.
For once wishing that Azrael was around to give him a lift to the throne room, he still managed to nimbly squeeze through the press of people, all the while listening to Elstridge’s explanation. But then his friend stopped, even as Orion was hunched between two massive knights. However even he noticed the bright light and stood up straight to see what was happening. He was a mere 5 meters away, but already he knew that it was too late.
***
Cerion started from his seat in the balcony, staring at the glowing light.
“Photographer!” he hissed, mind going back to all the knowledge that he had learnt about these hated sorcerers.
“Azrael!” he called, no longer the bumbling and vain young man that he was when he could afford to be.
Azrael smiled. She loved it when her fiancé was like this. With skillful weaves she picked him up, and sent him catapulting towards the throne along with herself. Even as she caught them both in a net of air and dropped into a crouch at the foot of the throne, Orion wormed his way next to them.
“What’s going on Cer?” He asked, his voice cracking slightly.
Cerion’s voice was grim and determined. “It’ll be alright Orion, I know how to deal with a Photographer.”
***
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Life is going strangely.
The trumpets blared their fanfare, a song of triumph and celebration. As the nobles ceased their polite conversations and turned to look at the door, the heralds finished their piece with a flourish.
Elstridge wanted to kill them, or at the very least inflict some amount of pain so that they could suffer along with him. Instead he kept silence.
Slowly the doors began to ease open, swinging inwards to reveal the Palace’s Grand Ballroom where the coronations of the past had been held. Elstridge could only tremble as he witnessed the seeming thousands of people who had come out to watch his final judgment, the end of all that was good in his life… the ultimate loss of freedom.
Resignation began to set in, as he realized that despite his best efforts and months of planning, he would still have to walk down the length of that hall and face the music, quite literally even. It was a sad awakening, and his shoulders slumped forward miserably.
“Let’s get this over with.” He mumbled and began to walk through the doors.
The trumpeters took up their fanfare again as the Prince walked by, their horns aimed right at the ears of Elstridge and his Honor Guard. In other circumstances he might have complained about the noise, but at this point, deep in the depths of his despair, he barely noticed. The guard did though, and there were several faces with gritted teeth if he had bothered to look.
On the other end of the Ballroom, flowing down like a stone wave, a massive staircase rose, leading up to the second story, and the doorway through which the reigning King would normally enter to sit on the Thrones at the foot of the stairs. Behind that door were the royal family’s personal chambers. It was sometimes joked that the feature should be called the “stairway to heaven” but the general consent was that the name lacked the dignity normal expected of royalty.
All these random facts flew through Elstridge’s mind as he trudged down the red carpet, absently acknowledging the waves and nods that he received along the way. Looking up, he noted several Wind Weavers, each having decided that standing on the floor was for other people, seated on nothing but air and enjoy the great view that their elevation provided. Idly the Prince wondered if the ladies among the Weavers know that anyone who felt like it could look up their dresses. Perhaps that was why some of the younger nobles weren’t paying much attention to him. The thought brought a sad smile to his face
The Throne approached him, even as he drew near to the throne. Today it was all over. His dreams would be shattered. Inwardly he knew that with great power came equally great responsibilities and as such those in positions like his often had a lot less say on their choices then might be thought. However since the time he had understood the role he would play, the young man had spent all his resources in trying to avoid it. However in the end, it was all for naught… this was his destiny… this was his fate.
The trumpets fell silent as he stepped onto the dais and turned to face the crowd before him. The Honor Guard drew up in formation behind and before him, standing at strict attention.
The court waited.
And waited…
Even though his gloom and hopelessness, Elstridge realized that something was wrong. Looking around quickly he wondered if he was meant to say something.
Suddenly a voice piped up, cultured, urbane and slightly embarrassed. “Oh that’s right! It’s my turn!”
Out of the first few rows of on-lookers burst the familiar sight of Tricolum Cornelius. Elstridge had know Tricolum since birth as the man who had been Prime Minister under his grandfather and one of the senior advisors to Elliam, the recently departed King. As the oldest and most respected of all the City’s nobles, it was his right and duty to preside over the coronation ceremony, even if he was 92 and very very forgetful in the short term.
“Sorry there lad, forgot I was up!” Whispered Tricolum as he bustled up to Elstridge.
The young Prince could help but smile at his oldest friend’s words and nodded. “That’s alright, I’m not in a rush anyway.”
“Splendid!” declared Tricolum, totally missing the meaning behind Elstridge’s words, “I’ll begin the ceremony now.”
Tricolum turned to face the gathered peoples. He spoke in a booming voice that belied his frail exterior and dopey face.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers, Hydromancers and anyone else who I’ve missed, welcome to the Palace on this wonderful and special evening.”
He paused to take a breath before continuing, the cadences and sounds of his voice masterfully played to make his words come alive.
“It is my pleasure to introduce Prince Elstridge Liam Royale, chosen successor and nephew to our former King, Elliam Newton Royalle. In the absence of a direct descendant from King Elliam, it had been decreed by both the Council of the Keep and Court of Nobles that Prince Elstridge will be next in line for the throne and would ascend during his 18th year. That year has come, and now I would like to present your Crown Prince, Elstridge Ton Royale!”
A wave of applause exploded from the gathered people as nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers and Hydromancers alike applauded their soon to be King.
Elstridge tried to look Crown Prince like, but in his mind he failed miserably. Even so, he stood straight, just like his mother had told him, and stared out at the crowd with neither smile nor frown.
The ceremony was still going however and Tricolum continued.
“Now, if there is anyone present, be they male or female, of power or of none, noble or citizen… or anyone else who I’ve missed but don’t want to offend who has a GOOD reason why this Crown Prince should NOT be made King, speak now, or forever, as in until you die, hold your peace.”
Now it was mandatory in the ceremony, having been written in big bold letters in the manual, that a silence of two minutes be enforced here. However in the three thousand years of Wilderia’s heritage, never once had anyone spoken up. As such, over the millennia the pause had become less a wait to see what people had to say, and more an opportunity for the, invariably old, Master of Ceremony’s to take a short breath. Normally that took 10 seconds, or at most 20.
“So if there…”
A quiet voice cut the air, carrying far. “Actually, I have something to say,” interjected Elstridge, committing to his final and desperate plan; he had hoped that this wouldn’t be necessary. “Something I think you should all know, something that my Uncle never told you.”
***
Elstridge wanted to kill them, or at the very least inflict some amount of pain so that they could suffer along with him. Instead he kept silence.
Slowly the doors began to ease open, swinging inwards to reveal the Palace’s Grand Ballroom where the coronations of the past had been held. Elstridge could only tremble as he witnessed the seeming thousands of people who had come out to watch his final judgment, the end of all that was good in his life… the ultimate loss of freedom.
Resignation began to set in, as he realized that despite his best efforts and months of planning, he would still have to walk down the length of that hall and face the music, quite literally even. It was a sad awakening, and his shoulders slumped forward miserably.
“Let’s get this over with.” He mumbled and began to walk through the doors.
The trumpeters took up their fanfare again as the Prince walked by, their horns aimed right at the ears of Elstridge and his Honor Guard. In other circumstances he might have complained about the noise, but at this point, deep in the depths of his despair, he barely noticed. The guard did though, and there were several faces with gritted teeth if he had bothered to look.
On the other end of the Ballroom, flowing down like a stone wave, a massive staircase rose, leading up to the second story, and the doorway through which the reigning King would normally enter to sit on the Thrones at the foot of the stairs. Behind that door were the royal family’s personal chambers. It was sometimes joked that the feature should be called the “stairway to heaven” but the general consent was that the name lacked the dignity normal expected of royalty.
All these random facts flew through Elstridge’s mind as he trudged down the red carpet, absently acknowledging the waves and nods that he received along the way. Looking up, he noted several Wind Weavers, each having decided that standing on the floor was for other people, seated on nothing but air and enjoy the great view that their elevation provided. Idly the Prince wondered if the ladies among the Weavers know that anyone who felt like it could look up their dresses. Perhaps that was why some of the younger nobles weren’t paying much attention to him. The thought brought a sad smile to his face
The Throne approached him, even as he drew near to the throne. Today it was all over. His dreams would be shattered. Inwardly he knew that with great power came equally great responsibilities and as such those in positions like his often had a lot less say on their choices then might be thought. However since the time he had understood the role he would play, the young man had spent all his resources in trying to avoid it. However in the end, it was all for naught… this was his destiny… this was his fate.
The trumpets fell silent as he stepped onto the dais and turned to face the crowd before him. The Honor Guard drew up in formation behind and before him, standing at strict attention.
The court waited.
And waited…
Even though his gloom and hopelessness, Elstridge realized that something was wrong. Looking around quickly he wondered if he was meant to say something.
Suddenly a voice piped up, cultured, urbane and slightly embarrassed. “Oh that’s right! It’s my turn!”
Out of the first few rows of on-lookers burst the familiar sight of Tricolum Cornelius. Elstridge had know Tricolum since birth as the man who had been Prime Minister under his grandfather and one of the senior advisors to Elliam, the recently departed King. As the oldest and most respected of all the City’s nobles, it was his right and duty to preside over the coronation ceremony, even if he was 92 and very very forgetful in the short term.
“Sorry there lad, forgot I was up!” Whispered Tricolum as he bustled up to Elstridge.
The young Prince could help but smile at his oldest friend’s words and nodded. “That’s alright, I’m not in a rush anyway.”
“Splendid!” declared Tricolum, totally missing the meaning behind Elstridge’s words, “I’ll begin the ceremony now.”
Tricolum turned to face the gathered peoples. He spoke in a booming voice that belied his frail exterior and dopey face.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers, Hydromancers and anyone else who I’ve missed, welcome to the Palace on this wonderful and special evening.”
He paused to take a breath before continuing, the cadences and sounds of his voice masterfully played to make his words come alive.
“It is my pleasure to introduce Prince Elstridge Liam Royale, chosen successor and nephew to our former King, Elliam Newton Royalle. In the absence of a direct descendant from King Elliam, it had been decreed by both the Council of the Keep and Court of Nobles that Prince Elstridge will be next in line for the throne and would ascend during his 18th year. That year has come, and now I would like to present your Crown Prince, Elstridge Ton Royale!”
A wave of applause exploded from the gathered people as nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers and Hydromancers alike applauded their soon to be King.
Elstridge tried to look Crown Prince like, but in his mind he failed miserably. Even so, he stood straight, just like his mother had told him, and stared out at the crowd with neither smile nor frown.
The ceremony was still going however and Tricolum continued.
“Now, if there is anyone present, be they male or female, of power or of none, noble or citizen… or anyone else who I’ve missed but don’t want to offend who has a GOOD reason why this Crown Prince should NOT be made King, speak now, or forever, as in until you die, hold your peace.”
Now it was mandatory in the ceremony, having been written in big bold letters in the manual, that a silence of two minutes be enforced here. However in the three thousand years of Wilderia’s heritage, never once had anyone spoken up. As such, over the millennia the pause had become less a wait to see what people had to say, and more an opportunity for the, invariably old, Master of Ceremony’s to take a short breath. Normally that took 10 seconds, or at most 20.
“So if there…”
A quiet voice cut the air, carrying far. “Actually, I have something to say,” interjected Elstridge, committing to his final and desperate plan; he had hoped that this wouldn’t be necessary. “Something I think you should all know, something that my Uncle never told you.”
***
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Gutter Queen
She's a bunch of tattered rags, shreds of cloth rustling menacingly with a life of their own if you step too close, greasy strips trapping a vile musty odor that's nearly a weapon. She's old; that much is apparent from the shock of coarse white hair, the curved, stooped posture that is less osteoporosis and more the result of a woman so ancient she's shrunk and caved into a shell of herself twice over. Something rattles in her throat when she breathes, and every now and again she coughs, a bone-shaking, lung-dislocating cough that sounds like terrible infections and slimy diseases and rotting death.
She holds court in a corner of Main Street between two colossal pillars which ornament as much as hold up the sides of a magnificent, phallic (and magnificently phallic) skyscraper, those gargantuan, polished, twin bones mocking her hunched but tough frame. She makes no attempt to stand out of the flow of human traffic like the other bums, this queen of the gutter; she holds her ground and the moving wave of people bends around her, as if to her will. This is familiar to her.
The peculiar thing about her is that instead of facing her people she faces the building; on a ledge running the length of the building she has propped up a piece of glass. Its edges are broken, and sharp, the surface is spotted with age and filmed with unspeakable grime, but she watches it intently and unceasingly. Anyone glancing at it, distantly curious, can only see feverishly bright eyes shot through with red veins, the only visible feature of her face, but through it she steadily watches her disloyal subjects, looking, searching.
Fake eyelashes, fake lips, fake breasts kisses her sugar daddy in a suit - "Have a good day baby, I'm gonna go shopping today". Too much time working at the weights, not enough time working on his social graces belches, scratches his balls, leers at her. Egyptian-looking by virtue of too much eye makeup, liar by nature hurries along clutching the lottery numbers that will save her from the drudgery of fortune telling. Green mohawk, eternally displeased mouth watches them with an eloquent scowl that highlights the multiple piercings in his lip, more metal than man.
Soundlessly, hopelessly, the grimy old lips move, fetid breath issuing from between in a sibilant hiss, and she asks the mirror now the same question she has asked it for centuries:
Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?
The mirror remains dumb.
She holds court in a corner of Main Street between two colossal pillars which ornament as much as hold up the sides of a magnificent, phallic (and magnificently phallic) skyscraper, those gargantuan, polished, twin bones mocking her hunched but tough frame. She makes no attempt to stand out of the flow of human traffic like the other bums, this queen of the gutter; she holds her ground and the moving wave of people bends around her, as if to her will. This is familiar to her.
The peculiar thing about her is that instead of facing her people she faces the building; on a ledge running the length of the building she has propped up a piece of glass. Its edges are broken, and sharp, the surface is spotted with age and filmed with unspeakable grime, but she watches it intently and unceasingly. Anyone glancing at it, distantly curious, can only see feverishly bright eyes shot through with red veins, the only visible feature of her face, but through it she steadily watches her disloyal subjects, looking, searching.
Fake eyelashes, fake lips, fake breasts kisses her sugar daddy in a suit - "Have a good day baby, I'm gonna go shopping today". Too much time working at the weights, not enough time working on his social graces belches, scratches his balls, leers at her. Egyptian-looking by virtue of too much eye makeup, liar by nature hurries along clutching the lottery numbers that will save her from the drudgery of fortune telling. Green mohawk, eternally displeased mouth watches them with an eloquent scowl that highlights the multiple piercings in his lip, more metal than man.
Soundlessly, hopelessly, the grimy old lips move, fetid breath issuing from between in a sibilant hiss, and she asks the mirror now the same question she has asked it for centuries:
Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?
The mirror remains dumb.
Hydromancers make good doctors... I'm sure you realize why
“We’re going to be late for the ceremony you realize?”
Cerion barely acknowledged his brother’s remark, concentrating as he was at his examination. Instead Azrael answered in his place.
“I’m sure Elstridge will forgive you for being late Orion, but we DO have to take care of this person you know… cause he’s dying.”
“But we’ll be late!” moaned Orion.
“I see that I also have to teach you something about priorities,” Azrael, noted as she turned back to Cerion. “How is he darling?”
Cerion took a deep breath before replying. “There’s some internal bleeding, but nothing that I can’t fix. Several of his ribs have been cracked as well, but thankfully none of them punctured his lung. I think I can fix him up, but we’ll need to take him inside.” Orion nodded emphatically to that last statement.
“Will he be able to stand the lifting?” asked Azrael, peering at the limp body.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, the ribs aren’t poking anything vital.”
The Hydromancer turned to regard his younger brother and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Chill Orion, if you can these days, we still have plenty of time, the ceremony doesn’t start for another ten minutes!”
Orion was bursting with frustration. “Exactly, ten minutes isn’t that long you know.”
Even as they had been talking, Azrael carefully picked up the unconscious man and they hurried into the castle.
***
9.32 minutes later
***
“I think I’ve stopped the bleeding and set the ribs,” Cerion announced, tired as he was from the precise exertions and pressure he had just undergone.
Azrael handed her fiancé a soft cloth. “Good work honey. Do you think it’s safe to leave him here?”
Cerion looked around, “sure, the office of a Council member should be as secure as any other part of the castle. Now let’s get to that coronation… where’s Orion?”
Checking herself quickly in the many mirrors that hung in Cerion’s office, Azrael glanced at her beloved’s reflection. “Didn’t you notice? He left while you were operating, made some pretentious excuse about using the bathroom.” She paused to regard her own reflection and then turned around, satisfied with the result. “To be fair to the boy though, it’s not everyday one of your best friends becomes King.”
Cerion nodded sagely, also checking his hair in a different mirror. “How do I look dear?” he asked as he absently smoothed down some hair behind his ears.
“Fine darling, but we really should go, or we’ll be late.”
“Right right, in a mom…”
“Now Cerion.” The tone used left no room for disagreement.
“At once dear.” Cerion replied meekly.
***
The moment of truth had come, and Elstridge was still of the opinion that it was all a big mistake. A view that was not shared by his mother, or the troop of soldiers who were his “Honor Guard”. Try as he might, it seemed like fate had conspired to force him through this process. Even so, that didn’t stop him from persevering against all odds…
“I’m sure you can see my point Captain.” He concluded to the Knight in charge, even as they walked down the hallway to the Ballroom entrance.
“Of course, your Highness.”
“That’s good, glad to know we’re on the same page.”
“As am I, your Highness.”
“It would be most embarrassing.”
“I agree, your Highness.”
“So will you let me go to the bathroom then?” A touch of hope crept into Elstridge’s voice.
“Absolutely not, your Highness.” The answer was final and very deliberate.
The Prince sighed deeply, something he had taken to doing a lot more of recently. Commands, requests and even outright deceit had all failed to provide the necessary components for his escape, and now he could see the doors of the Palace’s grand Ballroom, where over 500 people waited for him to arrive.
“Ho Elstridge!” shouted a familiar voice, causing the dejected young Prince to lift his head. Catching sight of Orion, still with his strange new hair style, a smile touched the face of the Prince.
“Ho Orion! I would have thought that you’d be inside already with the rest of the nobles, waiting for me to clap that big crown on my head.”
Orion looked down at his friend from the second story. With a deft jump, slide and roll he vaulted over the banister and down one of the many marble columns that supported the Palace. He drew level to the Guard, all of whom knew him, and looked quizzically at the Prince. “Actually they put it on for you, you know, that’s why it’s called a coronation… a crowning ceremony.”
Elstridge rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his childhood friend. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Orion flashed a grin, “you still upset about it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Of course!” I don’t want to be King!” complained Elstridge, even as they were ten meters from the Ballroom. “Could you work some of that Wind Weaver magic to get me out of here?”
Orion raised his hands to show his good intentions as the attention of the Honor Guard shifted suddenly. “I’d love to help, but I haven’t had much luck with the Wind Weaving lately, and plus I wouldn’t want to upset your mother now. Azrael AND Cerion would kill me if I did.”
Elstridge sighed again. “Then all is lost, you were my last hope.”
Orion chuckled. “Don’t worry about it so much. One day we’ll look back at this and laugh about how stubborn and stupid you were.”
His friend’s reply was tinged with dark foreboding, “or we’ll all be homeless and starving, either one yea?”
Orion laughed again and then scampered up the stairs to enter the Ballroom’s balcony. “Good luck!” he called as he disappeared around the corner.
“It’s not me,” muttered the Prince with a mental sigh, “it’s the Kingdom that I have to run.”
***
“Phew I think we made it.” Huffed Cerion, hand placed on the lintel of the doorway leading onto the balcony. “I don’t hear any trumpets.”
At his words, the trumpeters that lined the red carpet leading to the throne began to sound their fanfare announcing the entrance of the King.
“I think you’re deaf dear,” said Azrael with a massive grin even as she breezed past her rather less fit fiancé.
“But…” spluttered Cerion even as he also walked in.
The coronation had begun.
***
Cerion barely acknowledged his brother’s remark, concentrating as he was at his examination. Instead Azrael answered in his place.
“I’m sure Elstridge will forgive you for being late Orion, but we DO have to take care of this person you know… cause he’s dying.”
“But we’ll be late!” moaned Orion.
“I see that I also have to teach you something about priorities,” Azrael, noted as she turned back to Cerion. “How is he darling?”
Cerion took a deep breath before replying. “There’s some internal bleeding, but nothing that I can’t fix. Several of his ribs have been cracked as well, but thankfully none of them punctured his lung. I think I can fix him up, but we’ll need to take him inside.” Orion nodded emphatically to that last statement.
“Will he be able to stand the lifting?” asked Azrael, peering at the limp body.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, the ribs aren’t poking anything vital.”
The Hydromancer turned to regard his younger brother and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Chill Orion, if you can these days, we still have plenty of time, the ceremony doesn’t start for another ten minutes!”
Orion was bursting with frustration. “Exactly, ten minutes isn’t that long you know.”
Even as they had been talking, Azrael carefully picked up the unconscious man and they hurried into the castle.
***
9.32 minutes later
***
“I think I’ve stopped the bleeding and set the ribs,” Cerion announced, tired as he was from the precise exertions and pressure he had just undergone.
Azrael handed her fiancé a soft cloth. “Good work honey. Do you think it’s safe to leave him here?”
Cerion looked around, “sure, the office of a Council member should be as secure as any other part of the castle. Now let’s get to that coronation… where’s Orion?”
Checking herself quickly in the many mirrors that hung in Cerion’s office, Azrael glanced at her beloved’s reflection. “Didn’t you notice? He left while you were operating, made some pretentious excuse about using the bathroom.” She paused to regard her own reflection and then turned around, satisfied with the result. “To be fair to the boy though, it’s not everyday one of your best friends becomes King.”
Cerion nodded sagely, also checking his hair in a different mirror. “How do I look dear?” he asked as he absently smoothed down some hair behind his ears.
“Fine darling, but we really should go, or we’ll be late.”
“Right right, in a mom…”
“Now Cerion.” The tone used left no room for disagreement.
“At once dear.” Cerion replied meekly.
***
The moment of truth had come, and Elstridge was still of the opinion that it was all a big mistake. A view that was not shared by his mother, or the troop of soldiers who were his “Honor Guard”. Try as he might, it seemed like fate had conspired to force him through this process. Even so, that didn’t stop him from persevering against all odds…
“I’m sure you can see my point Captain.” He concluded to the Knight in charge, even as they walked down the hallway to the Ballroom entrance.
“Of course, your Highness.”
“That’s good, glad to know we’re on the same page.”
“As am I, your Highness.”
“It would be most embarrassing.”
“I agree, your Highness.”
“So will you let me go to the bathroom then?” A touch of hope crept into Elstridge’s voice.
“Absolutely not, your Highness.” The answer was final and very deliberate.
The Prince sighed deeply, something he had taken to doing a lot more of recently. Commands, requests and even outright deceit had all failed to provide the necessary components for his escape, and now he could see the doors of the Palace’s grand Ballroom, where over 500 people waited for him to arrive.
“Ho Elstridge!” shouted a familiar voice, causing the dejected young Prince to lift his head. Catching sight of Orion, still with his strange new hair style, a smile touched the face of the Prince.
“Ho Orion! I would have thought that you’d be inside already with the rest of the nobles, waiting for me to clap that big crown on my head.”
Orion looked down at his friend from the second story. With a deft jump, slide and roll he vaulted over the banister and down one of the many marble columns that supported the Palace. He drew level to the Guard, all of whom knew him, and looked quizzically at the Prince. “Actually they put it on for you, you know, that’s why it’s called a coronation… a crowning ceremony.”
Elstridge rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his childhood friend. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Orion flashed a grin, “you still upset about it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Of course!” I don’t want to be King!” complained Elstridge, even as they were ten meters from the Ballroom. “Could you work some of that Wind Weaver magic to get me out of here?”
Orion raised his hands to show his good intentions as the attention of the Honor Guard shifted suddenly. “I’d love to help, but I haven’t had much luck with the Wind Weaving lately, and plus I wouldn’t want to upset your mother now. Azrael AND Cerion would kill me if I did.”
Elstridge sighed again. “Then all is lost, you were my last hope.”
Orion chuckled. “Don’t worry about it so much. One day we’ll look back at this and laugh about how stubborn and stupid you were.”
His friend’s reply was tinged with dark foreboding, “or we’ll all be homeless and starving, either one yea?”
Orion laughed again and then scampered up the stairs to enter the Ballroom’s balcony. “Good luck!” he called as he disappeared around the corner.
“It’s not me,” muttered the Prince with a mental sigh, “it’s the Kingdom that I have to run.”
***
“Phew I think we made it.” Huffed Cerion, hand placed on the lintel of the doorway leading onto the balcony. “I don’t hear any trumpets.”
At his words, the trumpeters that lined the red carpet leading to the throne began to sound their fanfare announcing the entrance of the King.
“I think you’re deaf dear,” said Azrael with a massive grin even as she breezed past her rather less fit fiancé.
“But…” spluttered Cerion even as he also walked in.
The coronation had begun.
***
Monday, June 4, 2007
Whoo... cliff hanger
The winds that whipped around the Central Steeple were vicious, cold like ice and fast like lightning. Still Talleth didn’t mind too much, he was used to standing in high places.
He no longer whistled the tune that he had in the after, yet still the melody of that song ran over in his head, the one verse that his father had taught him as a child. It was a re-assuring comfort for the young man, almost like his mental ritual for relaxation.
Taking a look at the city’s clock tower just to his right, the soberly dressed figure counted down the minutes in his head. ‘Any moment now.’
Right on cue, a group of three individuals stepped out from a carriage at the foot of the steeple. All three wore masks, yet the burning red hair of the first to descend gave them away. Even in the dark, Talleth’s eye sight was sharp, and the colors stood out like it was day to him.
Straightening his cloak’s collar, he began to move towards the palace.
With a trade mark grin he began to walk down the roof. “Easy as…”
Suddenly a tile shot out from below his feet, sending the normally self assured young man flying.
‘Damn tiles!’ he thought as he tumbled over the edge. Far below he could see the ground rushing up to greet him. This would hurt a lot.
***
Prince Elstridge peered out at the gathering throng of nobles, politicians and important personalities who now moved with grace and pomp through the Palace ballroom. Drops of sweat, no longer content to bead on his brow, now began to form on his back and his mouth was suddenly very dry.
“Don’t fret at the curtain son!” Called his mother, calmly sitting on a plump teal couch, sipping tea from a porcelain cup, “come drink your tea?”
Elstridge resisted the urge to scream at his mother, and instead walked over to the matching chair which was off to his right.
“For the 100th time mother, I’m not fretting!” He exclaimed, defiantly taking a cup of tea from the table.”
“Is that so?” The stately woman replied. Turning her head slightly to look at her obviously stressed son she continued. “Then why are you shaking so much?”
The rattle of the tea cup hitting the saucer stopped suddenly as Elstridge willed his hand to stop moving immediately.
“I meant your knees son.”
With an increasingly red face, the boy realized that his knees were knocking together. Standing up suddenly, he almost spilt the tea on his shirt, putting it down just in time to avoid the splash.
“I don’t want to be King mother!”
Elmaria Nina Royale thought back to the days when she had been much younger. Although she wasn’t considered old at the age of 46, already she could feel her face changing, and the gray hairs were sprouting quickly matching the blonde that were there first. Still her memory was sharp. When she had been but 17, she remembered well the day of her brother’s coronation and how he too had railed against his own crowning. It was hardly coincidence that her dear brother Elliam had become the greatest ruler that Wilderia had ever known. Well, the enlisting of the alliance with the Keep had definitely helped, but that was only marginal, at least in her own mind.
“Elstridge Liam Royale!” She breathed in her most commanding and authoritative tone. “You have been chosen by the people of Wilderia to lead them into this next season of this country. You have been raised from birth KNOWING that this day might come. Now, at the age of eighteen you WILL ascend the throne that I have minded in my brother’s steed, and you WILL rule with honor, with valor and with the COURAGE that befits a member of our family!”
Elstridge sighed deeply, mouthing the words that his mother had been repeating for the last three months whenever he brought up the topic. He knew she was right. Yet how could he tell her that it was not his right to rule? Or that he didn’t feel up to it. She wouldn’t understand.
“But…”
“I will brook no argument Elstridge! The ceremony begins in 15 minutes!”
The Prince gave up, his shoulders slumping forward. “Yes ma’am.”
***
Orion loved the palace. It was one of the few places where he had grown up, playing and then later pestering his older brother. Despite the seven year age difference and the many responsibilities that Cerion carried, the older of the two brothers always found time to spend with his little shadow; patiently explaining to him the intricacies of weather art or having water fights with equal facility. Indeed the palace staff encouraged such behavior, out of respect for Cerion’s father if nothing else, but also from a genuine affection for Orion, one that everyone seemed to have.
Cerion had a rather more adult view of the place, though he still loved it just as much as his brother. The receptacles for all knowledge and training pertaining to Weather arts may lie in the keep, but it was at the palace where the majority of Wind Weavers and Hydromancers met during the day, completing assignments for nobility, communicating with their Council Members and, of course, gossiping like the other palace denizens.
However for Cerion, this building was where he had found the one thing that he had always sought, a beautiful woman to spend his life with. Azreal.
“You’ve got that look again Cer.” Commented Orion as he held the door for his brother.
“You wouldn’t understand Orion.” Stated Azreal, even as her fiancé offered her his hand with a charming smile. Her dimples made a brief appearance as she continued, “you’re just a bit young.”
Cerion chuckled at the small scowl that crossed his brother’s face. Better then anyone he knew that his brother hated to be talked down to, and even at the age of 24, he still treated his younger brother as an equal in all things. That would hold even truer now.
“Don’t tease him Azreal; my brother wants to enjoy the night! You never know, tonight he could meet someone special. Or one of his many “friends”, you never know with this boy. ”
Orion strove mightily to keep from returning that comment with a sharp smack on his brother’s back, so much so that smoke began to trickle out his ears.
Azreal laughed in whimsical delight. “You look so cute Orion! Would you like work in our kitchen? You’d be a great stove!”
His angry front crumpled under his own humor and so instead the new Embermage decided to retreat with a parting shot. “I give up, how can one so young compete with two wise old Council members? Maybe inside I’ll meet a long lost sibling or someone to help me get you guys back.”
Azreal and Cerion laughed good naturedly, and Orion returned their smile. As they began their ascent up the stairs, the wind began to howl more fiercely.
“Say dear…” began Cerion, raising a hand to his hair. Orion began to laugh even as Azreal sighed. “No problems darling.” She muttered, rolling her eyes slightly, even as she smiled along with Orion.
With only a thought, Azreal began to weave a shield around them to block the gale. The barrier was almost complete when Orion’s head jerked up. “Do you hear that?”
Cerion glanced at his brother before returning his gaze to the pocket mirror that he carried. “Hear what?”
Suddenly something hit the top of Azreal’s Wind Bowl, and then with a pop, the entire structure dissolved, bringing in a fresh wave of cold air and a body that collapsed into the middle of the three of them.
“That, I guess,” Orion said.
He no longer whistled the tune that he had in the after, yet still the melody of that song ran over in his head, the one verse that his father had taught him as a child. It was a re-assuring comfort for the young man, almost like his mental ritual for relaxation.
Taking a look at the city’s clock tower just to his right, the soberly dressed figure counted down the minutes in his head. ‘Any moment now.’
Right on cue, a group of three individuals stepped out from a carriage at the foot of the steeple. All three wore masks, yet the burning red hair of the first to descend gave them away. Even in the dark, Talleth’s eye sight was sharp, and the colors stood out like it was day to him.
Straightening his cloak’s collar, he began to move towards the palace.
With a trade mark grin he began to walk down the roof. “Easy as…”
Suddenly a tile shot out from below his feet, sending the normally self assured young man flying.
‘Damn tiles!’ he thought as he tumbled over the edge. Far below he could see the ground rushing up to greet him. This would hurt a lot.
***
Prince Elstridge peered out at the gathering throng of nobles, politicians and important personalities who now moved with grace and pomp through the Palace ballroom. Drops of sweat, no longer content to bead on his brow, now began to form on his back and his mouth was suddenly very dry.
“Don’t fret at the curtain son!” Called his mother, calmly sitting on a plump teal couch, sipping tea from a porcelain cup, “come drink your tea?”
Elstridge resisted the urge to scream at his mother, and instead walked over to the matching chair which was off to his right.
“For the 100th time mother, I’m not fretting!” He exclaimed, defiantly taking a cup of tea from the table.”
“Is that so?” The stately woman replied. Turning her head slightly to look at her obviously stressed son she continued. “Then why are you shaking so much?”
The rattle of the tea cup hitting the saucer stopped suddenly as Elstridge willed his hand to stop moving immediately.
“I meant your knees son.”
With an increasingly red face, the boy realized that his knees were knocking together. Standing up suddenly, he almost spilt the tea on his shirt, putting it down just in time to avoid the splash.
“I don’t want to be King mother!”
Elmaria Nina Royale thought back to the days when she had been much younger. Although she wasn’t considered old at the age of 46, already she could feel her face changing, and the gray hairs were sprouting quickly matching the blonde that were there first. Still her memory was sharp. When she had been but 17, she remembered well the day of her brother’s coronation and how he too had railed against his own crowning. It was hardly coincidence that her dear brother Elliam had become the greatest ruler that Wilderia had ever known. Well, the enlisting of the alliance with the Keep had definitely helped, but that was only marginal, at least in her own mind.
“Elstridge Liam Royale!” She breathed in her most commanding and authoritative tone. “You have been chosen by the people of Wilderia to lead them into this next season of this country. You have been raised from birth KNOWING that this day might come. Now, at the age of eighteen you WILL ascend the throne that I have minded in my brother’s steed, and you WILL rule with honor, with valor and with the COURAGE that befits a member of our family!”
Elstridge sighed deeply, mouthing the words that his mother had been repeating for the last three months whenever he brought up the topic. He knew she was right. Yet how could he tell her that it was not his right to rule? Or that he didn’t feel up to it. She wouldn’t understand.
“But…”
“I will brook no argument Elstridge! The ceremony begins in 15 minutes!”
The Prince gave up, his shoulders slumping forward. “Yes ma’am.”
***
Orion loved the palace. It was one of the few places where he had grown up, playing and then later pestering his older brother. Despite the seven year age difference and the many responsibilities that Cerion carried, the older of the two brothers always found time to spend with his little shadow; patiently explaining to him the intricacies of weather art or having water fights with equal facility. Indeed the palace staff encouraged such behavior, out of respect for Cerion’s father if nothing else, but also from a genuine affection for Orion, one that everyone seemed to have.
Cerion had a rather more adult view of the place, though he still loved it just as much as his brother. The receptacles for all knowledge and training pertaining to Weather arts may lie in the keep, but it was at the palace where the majority of Wind Weavers and Hydromancers met during the day, completing assignments for nobility, communicating with their Council Members and, of course, gossiping like the other palace denizens.
However for Cerion, this building was where he had found the one thing that he had always sought, a beautiful woman to spend his life with. Azreal.
“You’ve got that look again Cer.” Commented Orion as he held the door for his brother.
“You wouldn’t understand Orion.” Stated Azreal, even as her fiancé offered her his hand with a charming smile. Her dimples made a brief appearance as she continued, “you’re just a bit young.”
Cerion chuckled at the small scowl that crossed his brother’s face. Better then anyone he knew that his brother hated to be talked down to, and even at the age of 24, he still treated his younger brother as an equal in all things. That would hold even truer now.
“Don’t tease him Azreal; my brother wants to enjoy the night! You never know, tonight he could meet someone special. Or one of his many “friends”, you never know with this boy. ”
Orion strove mightily to keep from returning that comment with a sharp smack on his brother’s back, so much so that smoke began to trickle out his ears.
Azreal laughed in whimsical delight. “You look so cute Orion! Would you like work in our kitchen? You’d be a great stove!”
His angry front crumpled under his own humor and so instead the new Embermage decided to retreat with a parting shot. “I give up, how can one so young compete with two wise old Council members? Maybe inside I’ll meet a long lost sibling or someone to help me get you guys back.”
Azreal and Cerion laughed good naturedly, and Orion returned their smile. As they began their ascent up the stairs, the wind began to howl more fiercely.
“Say dear…” began Cerion, raising a hand to his hair. Orion began to laugh even as Azreal sighed. “No problems darling.” She muttered, rolling her eyes slightly, even as she smiled along with Orion.
With only a thought, Azreal began to weave a shield around them to block the gale. The barrier was almost complete when Orion’s head jerked up. “Do you hear that?”
Cerion glanced at his brother before returning his gaze to the pocket mirror that he carried. “Hear what?”
Suddenly something hit the top of Azreal’s Wind Bowl, and then with a pop, the entire structure dissolved, bringing in a fresh wave of cold air and a body that collapsed into the middle of the three of them.
“That, I guess,” Orion said.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
The charecter development thickens.
Talleth wandered down the row of shops, smiling broadly and whistling the tune that his father had taught him so many years ago. With his thumbs tucked into his belt and the happy mood he projected, many of the market’s patrons stopped to give him a smile or a wave. One store keeper, a big man with a cheerful grin, even went so far as to toss the tall youth an apple, one which was deftly caught.
“Thank you my good man!” he called, taking a big bite of the juicy red apple.
With an even broader smile, the young man continued down the market, no longer whistling, as he savoured the tasty apple. Things tasted sweeter when they were free.
Behind him a commotion began, resolving itself into the shape of several armed men running down the street. With a glance backward, Talleth stepped to the side, letting the City Patrol pass by, even casting a curious glance after them.
“What do you suppose the fuss is?” He asked a woman to his left.
“It has to be that bandit, Varako,” announced the rather rotund lady, nodding sharply. “He’s been robbing banks, stealing from the city’s treasury, and even had the nerve to steal the Prince’s gift for his sweet heart, the lovely Gabriella.
Talleth’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I heard that the Lady received the present.” He replied offhand, before taking another bite from the apple.
The woman nodded. “Aye, that she did, with a note saying that it was from a secret admirer, one who would always cherish and protect her.” The old lady’s voice crackled with derision. “The nerve of that villain!”
Talleth laughed good naturedly, “Right you are Ma’am, perhaps it’s time something was done yes?”
“High time indeed!”
With a tip of his cap, Talleth moved on down the street, following the flow of people who filled in the wake of the Patrol. With his roguish smile and confident manner, many of the young ladies rewarded him with coy glances and lowered eye lids. It helped that he was quite handsome too, with well groom mid length black hair and a striking green doublet.
The city’s Bell began to tool.
“Ahh,” sighed Talleth knowingly, stepping smoothly into a side street. “The Prince has come.”
Walking further down, the broad shouldered young man glanced around quickly to make sure he was along. Then without a word, he vanished.
***
Cerion stared hard at the mirror, trying to figure out what was wrong with the way his hair was arranged. Short spikes were out of the question, too much like his brother, yet that only left him with long hair that covered his face, something that his fiancé despised.
“You know, if you stay in her any longer Cer, you’ll start putting down roots.”
Not surprised by the intrusion, Cerion stepped to the side to put his beloved Azreal into view.
“Am I really that late?” he asked, sounding slightly plaintive.
“Not really, however I know how long you like to stare at your captivating beauty, so I thought I’d drop by. The bells will sound in a few minutes.
“Minutes!” Spluttered the hydromancer, fumbling desperately for oil to add to his already slick plumage.
“Relax dear, let me,” suggested Azreal as she began to work her wind weaving.
“I thought I told you that I didn’t like it when…”
“Hush dear,” said Azreal as she called a mask into the room from the wardrobe behind.
“Why do I have to wear a mask?” He whined
“Because it’s a masquerade dear.” Replied his beloved calmly. “What is it with your family, you guys love to complain.”
“Really?” How’s Orion? Still learning to control the fire?”
“I think he’s getting the hang of it. I haven’t had to suffocate him in about three days now, and he promised not to combust while we’re at the party.”
Cerion chuckled. “Party? It’s a coronation ceremony my darling! You know, the biggest social and political event this country has seen in almost a decade?”
Azreal laughed lightly, a rippling and extraordinarily pleasing sound that made Cerion’s heart beat a little faster.
“I’d hope so; I don’t do my hair like this everyday.”
For the first time since she had stepped into the room Cerion actually took notice of his soon to be wife. At that moment, he resolved to do so more often.
Azreal was beautiful, nay exquisite. Her gown was deep blue velvet that managed to shimmer in the light of the candles which surrounded them, yet it didn’t shine so brightly as to detract from the lady herself. The hem crumpled into the floor, yet even the crumples seemed like waves from which she was rising to display her remarkable beauty. Her long black hair was delicately piled in soft braids that seemed to intertwine with remarkable complexity and grace, and it ended in a cascade of brilliant curls which both reached long past her shoulders, yet hinted at the curve of her neck. Small diamonds and pearls were woven into her hair, and at her throat was a brilliant sapphire pendant, cut in the shape of a diamond, with a swirl of white gold as the setting.
“All done honey,” said Azreal as she broke the three minute long silence. “You can pick your jaw up on the way out.” Without another word, the Wind Weaver left, leaving the swishing of her gown behind her.
Cerion rubbed his chin ruefully as he strode out of his private bathroom. To himself he thought. ‘I am the LUCKIEST man on earth… and let no one forgot it!’
***
“Thank you my good man!” he called, taking a big bite of the juicy red apple.
With an even broader smile, the young man continued down the market, no longer whistling, as he savoured the tasty apple. Things tasted sweeter when they were free.
Behind him a commotion began, resolving itself into the shape of several armed men running down the street. With a glance backward, Talleth stepped to the side, letting the City Patrol pass by, even casting a curious glance after them.
“What do you suppose the fuss is?” He asked a woman to his left.
“It has to be that bandit, Varako,” announced the rather rotund lady, nodding sharply. “He’s been robbing banks, stealing from the city’s treasury, and even had the nerve to steal the Prince’s gift for his sweet heart, the lovely Gabriella.
Talleth’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I heard that the Lady received the present.” He replied offhand, before taking another bite from the apple.
The woman nodded. “Aye, that she did, with a note saying that it was from a secret admirer, one who would always cherish and protect her.” The old lady’s voice crackled with derision. “The nerve of that villain!”
Talleth laughed good naturedly, “Right you are Ma’am, perhaps it’s time something was done yes?”
“High time indeed!”
With a tip of his cap, Talleth moved on down the street, following the flow of people who filled in the wake of the Patrol. With his roguish smile and confident manner, many of the young ladies rewarded him with coy glances and lowered eye lids. It helped that he was quite handsome too, with well groom mid length black hair and a striking green doublet.
The city’s Bell began to tool.
“Ahh,” sighed Talleth knowingly, stepping smoothly into a side street. “The Prince has come.”
Walking further down, the broad shouldered young man glanced around quickly to make sure he was along. Then without a word, he vanished.
***
Cerion stared hard at the mirror, trying to figure out what was wrong with the way his hair was arranged. Short spikes were out of the question, too much like his brother, yet that only left him with long hair that covered his face, something that his fiancé despised.
“You know, if you stay in her any longer Cer, you’ll start putting down roots.”
Not surprised by the intrusion, Cerion stepped to the side to put his beloved Azreal into view.
“Am I really that late?” he asked, sounding slightly plaintive.
“Not really, however I know how long you like to stare at your captivating beauty, so I thought I’d drop by. The bells will sound in a few minutes.
“Minutes!” Spluttered the hydromancer, fumbling desperately for oil to add to his already slick plumage.
“Relax dear, let me,” suggested Azreal as she began to work her wind weaving.
“I thought I told you that I didn’t like it when…”
“Hush dear,” said Azreal as she called a mask into the room from the wardrobe behind.
“Why do I have to wear a mask?” He whined
“Because it’s a masquerade dear.” Replied his beloved calmly. “What is it with your family, you guys love to complain.”
“Really?” How’s Orion? Still learning to control the fire?”
“I think he’s getting the hang of it. I haven’t had to suffocate him in about three days now, and he promised not to combust while we’re at the party.”
Cerion chuckled. “Party? It’s a coronation ceremony my darling! You know, the biggest social and political event this country has seen in almost a decade?”
Azreal laughed lightly, a rippling and extraordinarily pleasing sound that made Cerion’s heart beat a little faster.
“I’d hope so; I don’t do my hair like this everyday.”
For the first time since she had stepped into the room Cerion actually took notice of his soon to be wife. At that moment, he resolved to do so more often.
Azreal was beautiful, nay exquisite. Her gown was deep blue velvet that managed to shimmer in the light of the candles which surrounded them, yet it didn’t shine so brightly as to detract from the lady herself. The hem crumpled into the floor, yet even the crumples seemed like waves from which she was rising to display her remarkable beauty. Her long black hair was delicately piled in soft braids that seemed to intertwine with remarkable complexity and grace, and it ended in a cascade of brilliant curls which both reached long past her shoulders, yet hinted at the curve of her neck. Small diamonds and pearls were woven into her hair, and at her throat was a brilliant sapphire pendant, cut in the shape of a diamond, with a swirl of white gold as the setting.
“All done honey,” said Azreal as she broke the three minute long silence. “You can pick your jaw up on the way out.” Without another word, the Wind Weaver left, leaving the swishing of her gown behind her.
Cerion rubbed his chin ruefully as he strode out of his private bathroom. To himself he thought. ‘I am the LUCKIEST man on earth… and let no one forgot it!’
***
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