Withering Tales

Hello, my beautiful darlings. <3

Many of you have followed me over from WT, and some of you aren't going to have the slightest clue what the hell is about to happen in this thread. Anyways, to my beloveds who do know Withering Tales, I'd love to give you all an update as to the plan of action I'm taking with the WT book series that I promised you all.

Now that summer has come, I've dedicated myself to writing at least - at LEAST - 1000 words a week in the novel alongside role playing. For those of whom are unaware, I can at least give you some of the basic knowledge behind what I've got going on so far, and perhaps even a sneak peak.

First of all, our main character is Thomas Luzien, and the beginning of the novel takes place just after the death of Rancose and Kavenoir, perhaps a few months. Thomas is a monk at a priory in Boscoria, located in the realm of Alesrin (used the lettes in WT to create nations/towns). At the moment, he is being assigned a special mission, seeing as their priory is "neutral/unaffiliated" with the war of the East (Province Kavenoir) and West (Province Rancose). Who needs North and South, amIrite?

Anyways, currently that's all the story information I want to give you. Though, I can promise you that Damen Lehaye, Aelise Warlander, Faulkner "Falcon" Marlon, and Elessia Norin are characters that will be popping up. I'm sure a few of you can figure out who is who. ;0

Without further adeiu, I did have a small promise. This isn't going to give very much, but it is funnziez and holds foreshadowing for future events in the novel. I present to you, the prologue.

Prologue
Peace never lasts. Serenity is a fickle part of imagination. Tranquility is but a short-lived, emotion-bred euphoria that fades as quickly as it sparks. Why then, could a kingdom ever consider the idea of a long lasting harmony to prevail in a world already scarred with battle? Alesrin had diminished since the first outbreak of bloodshed. Heaviness entranced its forests and fields with a never-ending sense of foreboding cast across the mountaintops. Streams did not babble happy nothings, but gossiped of the spies lacing the game trails and trees. Rivers roared with a fierceness that made even the elk and wolf feel unease in their presence. Superstitious and frightened folk kept to themselves in these times, sometimes braving unmarked trails to avoid the confrontation of battle or soldiers. Little did they know, they stepped upon unmarked graves even on their safest of trail.

Sheets of rain poured from the sky, drowning a mottled dirt road about two sword sweeps across. Each end faded into the forests surrounding the large field, etching a path between the Queen Ann's Lace and other tall flora growing along its sides. From the west, several men spurred their horses through the thicket, creating the thunder the field seemed to be missing.

A man upon a white steed strode several feet ahead of the others, his animal stained and dirtied with mud and his saddle soaked to the core. His maroon cloak whisked behind him at the break neck speed that the company road at, despite dripping with rainwater. With the thunderous sound of the shod hooves and the rattling of the horses', and men's, armor, the fellowship raced along without a mild sense of heed.

"Ferdinand!" called a rider from behind, yanking sharply at his bay steed's mouth as to slow him down.

The rider of the white horse did not need any further verbal warning to see what his loyal guard had seen, he too pulling steadily back at the reins of his mount until he, and all others behind him, fell into a halt.

Down the roads away, another rider came bursting through the trees, from the east entrance. He hadn't been galloping at near to the speed that Ferdinand's company had, but was closing in on them quick enough. As the man approached, the simple tack his buckskin appaloosa wore, as well as his monastery robes, led Ferdinand to loosen the grip he had upon his broadsword. The guards behind him, however, still remained at the ready.

"Peace, brothers, peace!" called the priest as he approached, dropping the tattered leather reins from his hands and lifting them to show he bore no hidden weapons. His horse steadily came to a halt a few yards away, before lowering its head and heaving a great sigh. "I mean no harm, Great Ferdinand, and of course, company."
"How did you know who we are?" Asked Ferdinand, tossing back his hood. Sitting atop his head was a gold circlet of crafted to look like ivy, almost hidden by his dark brown hair.

"In all respects, sir, you would not believe me if I told you." Admitted the priest, now fumbling nervously with his reins, his brown eyes cast down, head in a slight bow. "The leader of Province Kavenoir should not-"

"Enough, then. Speak your purpose for approaching us, so we may be on our way with haste." Below him, Ferdinand's mount shifted anxiously.

Raising his head now with bolstered confidence, false or real, the priest took a deep breath, before clasping his right hand on a silver pendant around his neck. "I came to warn you, sir, that there is danger awaiting you ahead, and that you should not proceed any further with your journey home."

Ferdinand's brow furrowed, casting shadow across his blue eyes. He took the moment to glance back at the two largest men in the group behind him. They both stared at him with mild confusion. Returning to the priest, Ferdinand looked at the man critically.

"I am always in danger. Which is why I have no time to waste speaking about it with you."

"You do not understand, sir. Death awaits you on your path home; you must believe me. Whether you take to the lost trails or the roads, you will not make it home to see your family." The monk stuttered slightly now, his hands shaking. "We are all in danger, even now, we must turn back."

"That's towards the Rancose. It'd be suicide." Snapped one of the guards from behind.

Ferdinand nodded in the man's direction, though he did not turn to face him. "He is right. We will face whatever dangers you say await us. Though we are kind, compassionate, and attempted to be a peaceful people, the Rancose will not shed our bravery."

The priest's already pale complexion seemed to drain away, absolute terror wrapping around him. Visibly, his hands clutched to his reins, and even his mount jolted awake, his muscles tightening, ears back. Forcing down an invisible choke in his throat, the priest shifted in his saddle, before quickly saying, "So be it… go towards home, but when the fire rises and your people are in danger, do not say that I did not warn you." Before Ferdinand had time to question him, not that it was without trying, the priest dug his heels into his horse's side, and bolted down the road towards the West.

For a brief moment the company remained still, attempting to understand what had actually transpired. After an urgent reminder they needed to move forward, the group of Kavenoir soldiers, headed by their commanding officer and leader, returned to their galloping pace in the direction of their capital.

- - # - -

A small, lanky boy rushed through the dark halls of the Rancose Castle, struggling to maintain his breath as not only fatigue, but fear, smothered him. Blood spoiled the linens beneath his thin leather armor, bubbling up at the seams until it poured in a steady red line down his leg. He followed a soldier, rather, was ushered forcefully by a soldier, quickly winding through the halls.

Eventually they came to a door, two wide, with seven more guards standing watch. The boy gulped, his eyes staring at every muscle wrought man in awe and fear. Signaling his fellows with a wave of his hand, the seventh - that stood promptly before the door - stepped aside, grabbing a hold of the handle while doing so. The soldier grasped the arm of the boy and tugged him through.

Both were enveloped in an eerie darkness as they stepped through the doors, only becoming thicker like ink as the door shut behind them. Several candles around the room illuminated bookshelves filled with rolls of parchment, maps, books, and bound journals. Amongst these understandable objects were glass displays; inside them blood stained daggers, arrows, and axes.

A man was scrawling hastily at a desk in the center of it all, a worn carpet beneath his feet appearing moth tattered even in the low candlelight. Candlewax dripped from the old mahogany desk and rolled onto the floor, creating mounds of misshapen debris birthed by sleepless nights. The boy couldn't help but gulp.

The soldier snapped to attention, his armor clanking with the final jerk of attention. At the desk, the man looked up, candlelight playing of this obsidian crown of thorns. Startlingly young compared to the rest of the room, the writer couldn't have been more than his early twenties, and built like all of the guards protecting him; robust and herculean. His green eyes were fierce in the flickering light, fixated on the strange new face standing besides his most loyal soldier.

"What is this?" Snapped Nathanial, standing from his aged velvet chair. He placed both of his palms to the table and leaned on them, slitting his eyes as they exchanged glances with the soldier, then the boy.

"Lord Nathanial, this scout claims that Vincent Treyble's caravan has been attacked." Said the soldier, bowing both before and after his acknowledgement.

Nathanial's brow furrowed, a vein in his neck protruding as he swallowed. "What makes you say that, boy?" His voice was more graveled now, betraying his age.

Shaking underneath Nathanial's powerful glare, the scout boy struggled to collect his thoughts. His hands fumbled with one another, or rubbed at the arrow wound in his thigh.

"S-sir… I… I…"

"Out with it!" Nathanial slammed his palms on his desk, roaring with such vigor his face flushed red.

"There was a surprise attack on the Rancose caravan with general Vincent Treyble, s-sir! There were no-no survivors, sir. Ex-except for me…" Stuttered the boy, his blue eyes cast down to the floor. His fair, pale skin flushed the brightest of reds, tears starting to well at the base of his eyes.

Nathanial took a moment only to stare at the young scout with an extreme analysis before leaning back and crossing his arms. Despite his stern exterior, a small flare of panicked frustration glimmered.

"There is one more thing, sir." Said the soldier standing besides the boy. Gasping, the scout turned and grasped at the elder man's bracers.

"Ple-please, no!"

The soldier promptly grabbed the boy by the arm, and ripped him free from his own, hoisting him several inches off the ground. With his free hand, he ripped off one of the boy's leather bracers and tossed it onto the desk. Nathanial's brow peaked now, staring down at it with keen interest.

"Now, now… what is this?" Nathanial gingerly picked the bracer up as if it were fragile and treasured, tumbling it over in his hands several times. He glanced at the boy, running his hands across the embossed Kavenoir emblem on its center.

"Please! I had nothing to do with the attack! I-I was merely scouting, s-sir! I-I-I was sent to see if Treyble's group was advancing, I was alone! I was the one that found them dead, s-sir! Then-then this soldier found me! P-Please, you must believe me!"

"There were no dead Kavenoir soldiers, Lord." Stated the soldier.

Nathanial turned the bracer over in his hands several more times, carefully looking at it. After a few moments, he threw the bracer at the scout boy. The cold hardened leather slapped him across the face, and before he could react to the initial pain burning across his cheek, Nathanial was standing in front of him. Eyes swelling with tears and tender hand to his childish face, the Rancose prince drove a knife he had torn out of the folds of his clothes and drove it into the boy's abdomen.

Nathanial let the small weapon go as the boy folded over in pain before falling to the floor, writhing in pain. Froth bubbled in his mouth, and as he slowly began to convulse, Nathanial flashed him a disturbed smile, and mouthed, "Poison".

Stepping aside as to not be touched by the dying boy, the soldier clasped his hands in front of himself, straightening his chin. He stood at attention while Nathanial carefully watched the boy die, at times peering down to get a closer look, a twisted smile contorting his handsome features. Once the boy fell silent, Nathanial stood straight again, adjusted his white tunic, and looked up to the soldier, seemingly bored.

"What now, sir?"

"First Srotigus, now Treyble… What generals of theirs have they lost?"

"Bruce Cascis, Imogen Tsim, and Ignatius Nitas."

By the look on his face, it was obvious that the Rancose prince was calculating advantages and disadvantages. It brought graveness over him, darkening his face as his chin rested on his balled fist, and passed back to his desk. He leaned over it again, eyes scanning the various forms, documents, and writings scattered across its filthy top. Ink blots stained some, others collected dust. Nathanial glanced up from under his heavy brow to the soldier.

"Its time to put an end to this."

In a steady succession, fresh raindrops began to pelt the stained glass windows of the study, a low rumble of thunder permeating in the distance.