Post by indycrow on Jul 17, 2017 0:25:52 GMT -4
Just something I've been working on
lmk if you want to read more or something like that, this is just a small bit of the whole thing
Seldom feelings are worse than that of being alone—and knowing that there’s no one there for you. Luna End found herself in this situation, riding atop her faithful steed as she approached home. Barely visible through the heavy rain, the shape of a citadel set upon a tall, jagged spire of rock watched as she approached. The rain hit her face in cold, hard shots and blended with what could’ve been tears. She sniffled not only from the cold, but also from the loss of her dear friend and companion.
Three years prior, her father Larus, duke of Blackmound, sent her away into the wilderness for conditioning. Along with her was sent Rhygon, a knight of Larus. For three years they ventured together, the old knight proving to be a faithful companion, never once straying from the duty that the duke had given him. He withstood both the elements and the challenges of others, and yet he was laid to rest not eight miles back. She dug a shallow grave and left a makeshift memorial as the thunder rolled in the distance and the winds began to pick up its howl. The sun had begun to set at the time, and Luna knew she had to set up camp soon. The trees were colored all shades of yellow and red, their leaves free to blow in the wind. He was always fond of this season, she remembered, and for good reason, too. She knew she couldn’t stay long before the storm began, so she had to leave in rather a hurry.
He told her to keep his sword in his last breaths—Silya, he called it. It was an elegant basket hilt sword, swift and light. It had a certain shine to it rarely seen in other blades, and a certain edge to it that allowed it for sharp, clean cuts. She had watched him use it before, and used it herself once or twice—but never for long. It always amazed her how good of a swordsman he was, even to the point of sometimes wanting to trade her skills in archery for skills in the blade.
But now Rhygon was gone. The only company she had was that of her tired horse and of the cold, hard rain. The thunder and lightning had passed over during the night, but it forgot to take the rain along with it. Blackmound was still a good number of miles away at least, but its shape was unavoidable. The tall towers displayed a forbidding welcome to any traveller—or resident, for this matter. She knew that there was life in the citadel, yet she couldn’t see it.
The rain seemed to soak right through her thick layers of clothing, drenching her to the bone. She shivered underneath the thick layers of fur and leather, her face scratched and bloody. She could feel cuts elsewhere, but it was mainly the ones on her face that bothered her. They stung and burned constantly, and even the rain wouldn’t take that away with how cold it was. Not much longer, Luna kept telling herself, Blackmound is only over this next hill.
Eventually, the rain began to let up and it became a far lighter shower. However, as if to compensate, the winds began to pick up. A popular talk about the North Winds was that it was half-named after the horrible winds inhabiting the landscape, sometimes even known for blowing down structures. The common rain showers also inhabiting the North Winds don’t help at all with finding comfort in nature. However, the land is arguably more beautiful than anywhere else in the Dargonain Kingdoms, and is also the second-most civilized northern kingdom—second only to Wenig. On clear nights, the sky is lit up by astounding colorful dancing lights, curtaining above the wilderness.
The village underneath the citadel became visible as she came over a hill. The sun began to set behind Blackmound, and the rain had gone away in full, but more loomed in the distance. The glow of the setting western sun to her left casted a long shadow over the tundra from the citadel and the tall, jagged spires of rock protruding from wherever in the open terrain. Homely pillars of smoke rose above the village, complimented by the autumn colors of the trees which seemed to come to a sudden stop at the base of the mountains. Home, she thought, after three years. Farmhouses and fields surrounded her, harvest approaching fast.
She soon passed the outer walls of the city and left the farmlands for the beginnings of a city. Not too dense, the buildings allowed for yards and wide paths between each other in contrast to the tight mazes of the inner city. The path curved gently until the city gates were visible and it changed into a long straightaway. The gates were still open, as they always were until either dark or under attack. Even with the barbarity of the North Winds, attacks on Blackmound were rare; there were no wars occurring and bandits stuck to attacking either small villages or lone travelers.
Luna rode her horse through the city gates and into the narrow, jagged streets of Blackmound. Peasants had begun a sort of uprising in the past two years or so, leaving her on guard—despite it primarily being the nobles that the people were after. Had someone even scarcely the look or wealth of nobility, they would throw them down and trample them, calling it not only just but also moral. Lucky for Luna, the three years in the wilds had done her well. She was perfectly disguised as an outsider, perhaps even passable as an outlaw with the bloody features.
She dismounted at the base of a long, winding staircase into the mountains. It wasn’t too narrow, but it was certainly steep. Portions of it had you standing on a knife’s edge, facing down over the city. Not too uncommon was it for unheeding travelers to fall to their death, though only one of Larus’ knights had fallen before, and that was due to horseplay. Her horse climbed the stairs without much difficulty, having been bred and raised in the North Winds. The terrain was harsh, and almost unbearable for the regular horse when traveling cross-country but it was in the northern horse’s blood to navigate through tricky features.
She reached the top of the staircase by sundown, looking over the brightening city. The sun had hid itself away behind the mountains, casting its long shadow over the city. The sky was turning a darkening blue, and the waxing moon grew brighter by the minute. The staircase ended at the top of a ledge, and the path continued north towards the Black Bridge. Spanning over a massive ravine, the Black Bridge—jocosely the Broken Bridge—connected the pinnacle on which Blackmound stood to the side of the mountain. In all of its might, the seemingly-crumbling-structure looked sad and beaten, its assailant the elements. A sort of dark shine always reflected off the bridge whether in moonlight or sunlight, glimmering like it was constantly rained upon.
She led her horse through the thick alpine woods until she reached an old watchtower at the western end of the Black Bridge. The path was scattered lightly with yellow leaves, almost veiling the path on portions of it. Blackmound stretched out Eastward over the highlands, the bridge looming drearily in the moonlight. As soon as she left the shelter of the trees, the howling winds picked up like a winter storm. The frozen air of the month Sílot—the ninth month of the twelve-month cycle—aided in giving the harsh wind an extra bite. Her hood blew down and she was almost blinded by her hair, controlling her stagger as best she could. The addition of the night didn’t help either; the Black Bridge was full of inconsistencies, protrusions and intrusions riddling the ground.
She finally made her way to the massive wooden door, reinforced with iron. There were rings on it to assist with knocking, but it was almost difficult to hear them over the wind, even when standing so close to them.
“Hello!” Luna cried. Her voice didn’t feel particularly strong from all her heartache, so her yell was rather weak…and didn’t receive a reply. Do they recognize me? she began to question after a time. She stood cold in the night, perhaps more alone than before.
Eventually, a small slot in the gate did open and someone peeked out through it. It wasn’t a guard, she saw, so maybe that was the wait.
“Good evening,” the voice greeted her in a puzzled tone, “What brought to to the citadel at this hour?”
“I’m the daughter of Lars—who is the duke, is he not?”
“If that were so, there would be two of you,” the man resolved.
“Rhygon is dead, buried outside of Lurdis,” she explained, “about halfway the distance to here.”
The slot closed and she was alone again. She wanted to turn around and go back, but for some reason the stood there. It was cold, but the lonesomeness felt worse. It felt as if the world was against her—she had lost Rhygon, and now she had been turned away by her home…until the slot opened again with a loud clank. It wasn’t the same person, and they didn’t speak; the slot simply closed after the new pairs of eyes saw her.
With another, louder clank the doors began to swing open inwards. There stood her brother, Lars, long golden hair like her own and dressed in fine, expensive clothes. He had a scruff beard and looked a deal older than she had remembered. He was thirty or so now, she remembered; the last time she saw him, he was only in his twenties. She was four years younger than him, though she felt as if she was a child again. He ran out to embrace her, which came almost as a surprise. She wanted to be happy, but somehow she felt as if she couldn’t.
“Where’s Rhygon?” he immediately asked, stepping back a bit.
“Dead,” Luna said solemnly, “buried somewhere between here and Lurdis.”
“A shame,” Lars said, “Rhygon was a good man and a valuable knight. His sword?”
“He gave me it,” Luna told him.
“Don, bring her horse to the stable master,” Lars commanded one of the guards, “my, you’re bloodied,” he noticed, turning back to Luna.
“Just some scratches,” she told him.
“No, no; this won’t do. You ought to be taken to the doctor,” he said, leading her inside. The entry-room to the citadel was a dining hall, full of wooden benches. At the far-end was Larus’ massive wooden throne and Lars’ seat next to it.
They travelled through some halls; some had marvelous stained glass windows and decorated walls while others were nothing more than cold, dull stone. It was quiet inside: rarely did someone walk by them, and when someone did, they talked in either a whisper or didn’t talk at all. The lighting was dim and dark—somewhat depressing and ominous as well.
The doctor resided at the top of one of the many towers peeking out of the citadel, and to get to it they had to go through an open courtyard. The waxing moon shone brightly down onto the glimmering stones and the small, yellow windows scattered across the place were oddly unnerving. It was eerie, for sure; rubble was scattered across from place to place, almost as if the citadel had been abandoned long ago. Blackmound has never fallen, she reminded herself. It was a popular—and true—thing to say that Blackmound had never fallen before. Its history spanned for a long time, and for as long as anyone can remember, no one has been able to breach its mighty walls. The rock spire upon which it stood was its wall, and that wall could not be breached.
They climbed up an endless spiraling staircase until they reached the end: a small, wooden door. There were doors on the sides of the tower as they went up, and from the outside the structure looked so thin that it made Luna question how they could fit any more rooms into the sides. The clinic itself wasn’t too small: there was a wooden catwalk above them, supposedly for extra storage room, and a number of beds for the sick. Most of them were unoccupied, but there were a good number of them. Even with how many there were, it didn’t seem as if it were sufficient for an army.
“Lord End,” the doctor said, averting his eyes from his work, “what brings you up to the tower this late?”
“Luna End has returned, and she’s rather beat,” Larus explained. The doctor was an older man, his hair almost graying yet his voice already frail. He had a beard, still with the flecks of some brown in it from his younger years, and warm eyes. He had a slouch to his rather thin stature, and a long robe almost as if he were trying to hide it.
“Lady End,” the doctor said with a short bow, “let me have a look. Is it only on the face?”
“On my arms, on my legs, on my back…cuts everywhere, really.”
“What happened?” Lars asked.
“I don’t want to go into it,” Luna replied, shaking her head and sighing.
“You get mauled by a bear?” the doctor asked, only half-joking. Luna didn’t respond.
The next hour or two went by with the doctor mixing all sorts of things to create medicine to apply to this wound or that, and then a lot of bandages. They got her new, more comfortable clothing too. Lars knew she didn’t like dresses, so he gave her a plain shirt and breeches. Normally, he would’ve given her at least a short tease by implying a dress in one way or another, but he didn’t—and that felt odd. He’s changed, Luna decided, after three years of waiting, I’m still somewhere far away from home.
“Come back at least once a day,” the doctor requested.
She found her brother later that night looking off of a balcony into the north, where a faint display of an aurora could be seen through the crevices in the clouds. He was smoking a pipe, his face hard as stone.
“You’re cold, brother,” she said after minutes of silence.
“Aye, I am. There’s a dark shadow watching over this place, little sister—and I’m at the center of it.” He took a long inhale from his pipe and exhaled impassively. “Go to bed,” he told her, “you know where your room is, yes?” Luna nodded and left him smoking his pipe. She didn’t want to be around him; she felt alone, and he was colder than Rhygon’s grave.
She walked through a dimly lit hall, passing a guard every now and then. It was hard to navigate the citadel when you forgot its layout. It was enormous, and all of it looked the same on the inside. She eventually found her room. It was finely decorated with tapestries, a fireplace, a soft bed, and countless other things. It seemed like the same room she had oh-so long ago, but it felt different. It didn’t feel like home, it felt like just another inn. She tossed herself onto her bed nonetheless and fell asleep quickly. Even if it didn’t feel like home, the bed was softer than any other she had slept in for at least three years.
The morning came quickly, and Luna didn’t want to wake up. From behind a drawn crimson curtain, the glow of morning light peeked through and subtly filled the room. It was quiet and peaceful, the only noise being the creaking of her bed when she moved. Home, she suddenly thought. Odd—that it only took one night’s rest to change how she felt about it. Perhaps it was because it was the first time in a long time that she could sleep in without being woken before the sun rose to be subject to a long day of riding and work.
She sat up in her bed after a time, doing nothing more than thinking. Who’s still here? she wondered. Are they different too, like Lars? Gods, I hope not.
She eventually gathered the strength to pull herself out of bed and dress herself, painful as it was with the wounds. They didn’t seem this bad yesterday, she thought. The bandages were already dirty, too. Best be seeing the doctor again.
The citadel was far more lively in the morning—there were plenty of people coming and going through the halls, lively chatter all about. It was an odd night, she told herself, that’s all. Everything’s fine now, I’m back home. It felt almost like a dream—the light of the morning, the smiling faces…plenty of which she didn’t recognize. Where did all these people come from, anyway? Last I remember, this place had no more than half…
The hall was full of people too, enjoying breakfast. Distinctly, on his large, wooden throne was Luna’s father and the duke of Blackmound—Larus End, dressed entirely in white save for his silver circlet. He was actually the duke of the Jardys territory in the North Winds, but people liked to call him the Duke of Blackmound for the sake of the citadel. It was gifted to him after he served as some sort of leader in the Kalthor military, but the North Winds soon broke away from the kingdom of Kalthor and became its own. Then the empire came and tried to unite all of the different parts of the Dargonain, but was only successful in certain areas. The North Winds became subject to the empire of the Northern Empire (formerly the Northern Kingdom)—under Emperor Alastar—and so did some other kingdoms, too; but Wenig, Noocarya, and Esgorth all remained on their own and so did the Eastern Territories. The trouble with this became that Wenig, Noocarya, and Esgorth are all separated from the Northern Empire by a sea, but the Eastern Territories are directly connected…it was all very confusing, and Luna didn’t take enough time bothering with it to have it fully down, but she remembered it was something like that.
Lars was at his father’s side, unamiable as he was the night before. He watched over the hall, eyes pensively scanning the tables.
“Luna,” someone greeted her after a good minute of her doing nothing more than looking around like a dolt, “come sit with us.”
She turned around to see a familiar face—Aegther Rethain, an old friend. He was almost unrecognizable at first, but it didn’t take long to recognize him. He had curly brown—almost orange—hair grown out down to the sides of his cheeks and a bit longer in the back, accompanied by a well-kept beard. He had a warm face, one worn of smiling and laughing for long years. He had a tall forehead and a short chin, but he was also quite thin. His eyebrows were almost melancholic, but somehow gave a friendly feel.
“Aegther,” she addressed him back.
“Come sit with us,” he repeated with a smile and a wave of the hand. He led her to a table where two others already sat—both she recognized. One was Eliyon Ruccas, Larus’ favorite knight. He had been at her father’s side for as long as she could remember, advising him whenever he’d ask. He looked quite similar to her brother, except that his hair was more wavy than curly, sort of like her own. He had a light beard, barely there and eyes that would constantly be lost in thought.
The other was Talion Gillot, a knight who never did fit. He had thick, curly black hair in contrast to the golden mane of Eliyon, and an ever-sadistic smile that haunted his emaciated face, only showing the skeleton of someone who perhaps once was.
“Take my seat, I’ll find another,” Aegther told her when he realized there was only one vacant seat. He disappeared into the crowds.
“Welcome home,” Eliyon said with a face like stone.
“It’s nice to be back,” Luna replied, saying the first thing that came to mind. Sort of. I’m still not sure what it’s like here.
“Nice to be back,” Talion scoffed, leaning far back in his chair, “The Lady of Blackmound hasn’t a clue of Dallion, does she?”
Eliyon whispered something to Talion in a fierce tone that Luna couldn’t quite make out. Talion said something back more calmly, then Eliyon backed off looking annoyed.
“Who’s Dallion?” she asked.
“No, she doesn’t,” Eliyon told Talion straight-out.
“I’d like to know,” she requested. Aegther reappeared with a chair.
“You’d have no idea how hard it is to find a chair at this time,” he laughed, “these crowds have been mad as of late!”
“Who’s Dallion?” Luna asked Aegther. He didn’t seem to hear her.
“Let’s put it this way—you’re climbing down a mountain, and you have your boot laced tight,” Talion began, leaning into the table, “then you get a rock in your boot. Not any old small little smooth pebble, but a real nasty, big, jagged one, aye? Well, if Blackmound is the mountain-climber and Larus is the foot, Dallion is the rock. Larus is holding this place together, keeping it from falling apart, and that rock just had to be slipped in there by the forces of nature trying to tear apart the climber. Even if nature didn’t mean it, it’s still there—and you can’t get rid of it without a hassle.”
“Horrible example,” Eliyon immediately blurted, “it’s nothing of your concern, Luna.”
“Lady End,” she corrected him. For some reason, she knew she should listen to Eliyon, but she had a sort of resentment towards him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“My apologies,” Eliyon said. She couldn’t tell if it was sincere or not. The smile had vanished from Aegther’s face, replaced with something that was either concentration or annoyance.
“Bloody tell her outright if you’re going to tell her,” Aegther suddenly said, “it’s not use beat’n around the bush. She’ll learn, one way or another eventually.”
“But not now,” Eliyon pleaded.
“Tell me,” Luna demanded.
“Larus is in trouble,” Eliyon finally gave in, “King Agnar feels he’s weak and losing his strength, so he wants to give it over to Dallion…but not yet. He’s waiting…” Eliyon lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “We can’t fight back because most of these men are Dallion’s.”
“Why not hand it down to Lars?” Luna asked.
“Lars offended the king, spoke out against him when he denounced Larus. It’s almost treason already, and it’s all weighing down on him,” Aegther explained, “I’m sorry that you had to come home at this time.”
It’s not home after all, Luna thought.
lmk if you want to read more or something like that, this is just a small bit of the whole thing
Seldom feelings are worse than that of being alone—and knowing that there’s no one there for you. Luna End found herself in this situation, riding atop her faithful steed as she approached home. Barely visible through the heavy rain, the shape of a citadel set upon a tall, jagged spire of rock watched as she approached. The rain hit her face in cold, hard shots and blended with what could’ve been tears. She sniffled not only from the cold, but also from the loss of her dear friend and companion.
Three years prior, her father Larus, duke of Blackmound, sent her away into the wilderness for conditioning. Along with her was sent Rhygon, a knight of Larus. For three years they ventured together, the old knight proving to be a faithful companion, never once straying from the duty that the duke had given him. He withstood both the elements and the challenges of others, and yet he was laid to rest not eight miles back. She dug a shallow grave and left a makeshift memorial as the thunder rolled in the distance and the winds began to pick up its howl. The sun had begun to set at the time, and Luna knew she had to set up camp soon. The trees were colored all shades of yellow and red, their leaves free to blow in the wind. He was always fond of this season, she remembered, and for good reason, too. She knew she couldn’t stay long before the storm began, so she had to leave in rather a hurry.
He told her to keep his sword in his last breaths—Silya, he called it. It was an elegant basket hilt sword, swift and light. It had a certain shine to it rarely seen in other blades, and a certain edge to it that allowed it for sharp, clean cuts. She had watched him use it before, and used it herself once or twice—but never for long. It always amazed her how good of a swordsman he was, even to the point of sometimes wanting to trade her skills in archery for skills in the blade.
But now Rhygon was gone. The only company she had was that of her tired horse and of the cold, hard rain. The thunder and lightning had passed over during the night, but it forgot to take the rain along with it. Blackmound was still a good number of miles away at least, but its shape was unavoidable. The tall towers displayed a forbidding welcome to any traveller—or resident, for this matter. She knew that there was life in the citadel, yet she couldn’t see it.
The rain seemed to soak right through her thick layers of clothing, drenching her to the bone. She shivered underneath the thick layers of fur and leather, her face scratched and bloody. She could feel cuts elsewhere, but it was mainly the ones on her face that bothered her. They stung and burned constantly, and even the rain wouldn’t take that away with how cold it was. Not much longer, Luna kept telling herself, Blackmound is only over this next hill.
Eventually, the rain began to let up and it became a far lighter shower. However, as if to compensate, the winds began to pick up. A popular talk about the North Winds was that it was half-named after the horrible winds inhabiting the landscape, sometimes even known for blowing down structures. The common rain showers also inhabiting the North Winds don’t help at all with finding comfort in nature. However, the land is arguably more beautiful than anywhere else in the Dargonain Kingdoms, and is also the second-most civilized northern kingdom—second only to Wenig. On clear nights, the sky is lit up by astounding colorful dancing lights, curtaining above the wilderness.
The village underneath the citadel became visible as she came over a hill. The sun began to set behind Blackmound, and the rain had gone away in full, but more loomed in the distance. The glow of the setting western sun to her left casted a long shadow over the tundra from the citadel and the tall, jagged spires of rock protruding from wherever in the open terrain. Homely pillars of smoke rose above the village, complimented by the autumn colors of the trees which seemed to come to a sudden stop at the base of the mountains. Home, she thought, after three years. Farmhouses and fields surrounded her, harvest approaching fast.
She soon passed the outer walls of the city and left the farmlands for the beginnings of a city. Not too dense, the buildings allowed for yards and wide paths between each other in contrast to the tight mazes of the inner city. The path curved gently until the city gates were visible and it changed into a long straightaway. The gates were still open, as they always were until either dark or under attack. Even with the barbarity of the North Winds, attacks on Blackmound were rare; there were no wars occurring and bandits stuck to attacking either small villages or lone travelers.
Luna rode her horse through the city gates and into the narrow, jagged streets of Blackmound. Peasants had begun a sort of uprising in the past two years or so, leaving her on guard—despite it primarily being the nobles that the people were after. Had someone even scarcely the look or wealth of nobility, they would throw them down and trample them, calling it not only just but also moral. Lucky for Luna, the three years in the wilds had done her well. She was perfectly disguised as an outsider, perhaps even passable as an outlaw with the bloody features.
She dismounted at the base of a long, winding staircase into the mountains. It wasn’t too narrow, but it was certainly steep. Portions of it had you standing on a knife’s edge, facing down over the city. Not too uncommon was it for unheeding travelers to fall to their death, though only one of Larus’ knights had fallen before, and that was due to horseplay. Her horse climbed the stairs without much difficulty, having been bred and raised in the North Winds. The terrain was harsh, and almost unbearable for the regular horse when traveling cross-country but it was in the northern horse’s blood to navigate through tricky features.
She reached the top of the staircase by sundown, looking over the brightening city. The sun had hid itself away behind the mountains, casting its long shadow over the city. The sky was turning a darkening blue, and the waxing moon grew brighter by the minute. The staircase ended at the top of a ledge, and the path continued north towards the Black Bridge. Spanning over a massive ravine, the Black Bridge—jocosely the Broken Bridge—connected the pinnacle on which Blackmound stood to the side of the mountain. In all of its might, the seemingly-crumbling-structure looked sad and beaten, its assailant the elements. A sort of dark shine always reflected off the bridge whether in moonlight or sunlight, glimmering like it was constantly rained upon.
She led her horse through the thick alpine woods until she reached an old watchtower at the western end of the Black Bridge. The path was scattered lightly with yellow leaves, almost veiling the path on portions of it. Blackmound stretched out Eastward over the highlands, the bridge looming drearily in the moonlight. As soon as she left the shelter of the trees, the howling winds picked up like a winter storm. The frozen air of the month Sílot—the ninth month of the twelve-month cycle—aided in giving the harsh wind an extra bite. Her hood blew down and she was almost blinded by her hair, controlling her stagger as best she could. The addition of the night didn’t help either; the Black Bridge was full of inconsistencies, protrusions and intrusions riddling the ground.
She finally made her way to the massive wooden door, reinforced with iron. There were rings on it to assist with knocking, but it was almost difficult to hear them over the wind, even when standing so close to them.
“Hello!” Luna cried. Her voice didn’t feel particularly strong from all her heartache, so her yell was rather weak…and didn’t receive a reply. Do they recognize me? she began to question after a time. She stood cold in the night, perhaps more alone than before.
Eventually, a small slot in the gate did open and someone peeked out through it. It wasn’t a guard, she saw, so maybe that was the wait.
“Good evening,” the voice greeted her in a puzzled tone, “What brought to to the citadel at this hour?”
“I’m the daughter of Lars—who is the duke, is he not?”
“If that were so, there would be two of you,” the man resolved.
“Rhygon is dead, buried outside of Lurdis,” she explained, “about halfway the distance to here.”
The slot closed and she was alone again. She wanted to turn around and go back, but for some reason the stood there. It was cold, but the lonesomeness felt worse. It felt as if the world was against her—she had lost Rhygon, and now she had been turned away by her home…until the slot opened again with a loud clank. It wasn’t the same person, and they didn’t speak; the slot simply closed after the new pairs of eyes saw her.
With another, louder clank the doors began to swing open inwards. There stood her brother, Lars, long golden hair like her own and dressed in fine, expensive clothes. He had a scruff beard and looked a deal older than she had remembered. He was thirty or so now, she remembered; the last time she saw him, he was only in his twenties. She was four years younger than him, though she felt as if she was a child again. He ran out to embrace her, which came almost as a surprise. She wanted to be happy, but somehow she felt as if she couldn’t.
“Where’s Rhygon?” he immediately asked, stepping back a bit.
“Dead,” Luna said solemnly, “buried somewhere between here and Lurdis.”
“A shame,” Lars said, “Rhygon was a good man and a valuable knight. His sword?”
“He gave me it,” Luna told him.
“Don, bring her horse to the stable master,” Lars commanded one of the guards, “my, you’re bloodied,” he noticed, turning back to Luna.
“Just some scratches,” she told him.
“No, no; this won’t do. You ought to be taken to the doctor,” he said, leading her inside. The entry-room to the citadel was a dining hall, full of wooden benches. At the far-end was Larus’ massive wooden throne and Lars’ seat next to it.
They travelled through some halls; some had marvelous stained glass windows and decorated walls while others were nothing more than cold, dull stone. It was quiet inside: rarely did someone walk by them, and when someone did, they talked in either a whisper or didn’t talk at all. The lighting was dim and dark—somewhat depressing and ominous as well.
The doctor resided at the top of one of the many towers peeking out of the citadel, and to get to it they had to go through an open courtyard. The waxing moon shone brightly down onto the glimmering stones and the small, yellow windows scattered across the place were oddly unnerving. It was eerie, for sure; rubble was scattered across from place to place, almost as if the citadel had been abandoned long ago. Blackmound has never fallen, she reminded herself. It was a popular—and true—thing to say that Blackmound had never fallen before. Its history spanned for a long time, and for as long as anyone can remember, no one has been able to breach its mighty walls. The rock spire upon which it stood was its wall, and that wall could not be breached.
They climbed up an endless spiraling staircase until they reached the end: a small, wooden door. There were doors on the sides of the tower as they went up, and from the outside the structure looked so thin that it made Luna question how they could fit any more rooms into the sides. The clinic itself wasn’t too small: there was a wooden catwalk above them, supposedly for extra storage room, and a number of beds for the sick. Most of them were unoccupied, but there were a good number of them. Even with how many there were, it didn’t seem as if it were sufficient for an army.
“Lord End,” the doctor said, averting his eyes from his work, “what brings you up to the tower this late?”
“Luna End has returned, and she’s rather beat,” Larus explained. The doctor was an older man, his hair almost graying yet his voice already frail. He had a beard, still with the flecks of some brown in it from his younger years, and warm eyes. He had a slouch to his rather thin stature, and a long robe almost as if he were trying to hide it.
“Lady End,” the doctor said with a short bow, “let me have a look. Is it only on the face?”
“On my arms, on my legs, on my back…cuts everywhere, really.”
“What happened?” Lars asked.
“I don’t want to go into it,” Luna replied, shaking her head and sighing.
“You get mauled by a bear?” the doctor asked, only half-joking. Luna didn’t respond.
The next hour or two went by with the doctor mixing all sorts of things to create medicine to apply to this wound or that, and then a lot of bandages. They got her new, more comfortable clothing too. Lars knew she didn’t like dresses, so he gave her a plain shirt and breeches. Normally, he would’ve given her at least a short tease by implying a dress in one way or another, but he didn’t—and that felt odd. He’s changed, Luna decided, after three years of waiting, I’m still somewhere far away from home.
“Come back at least once a day,” the doctor requested.
She found her brother later that night looking off of a balcony into the north, where a faint display of an aurora could be seen through the crevices in the clouds. He was smoking a pipe, his face hard as stone.
“You’re cold, brother,” she said after minutes of silence.
“Aye, I am. There’s a dark shadow watching over this place, little sister—and I’m at the center of it.” He took a long inhale from his pipe and exhaled impassively. “Go to bed,” he told her, “you know where your room is, yes?” Luna nodded and left him smoking his pipe. She didn’t want to be around him; she felt alone, and he was colder than Rhygon’s grave.
She walked through a dimly lit hall, passing a guard every now and then. It was hard to navigate the citadel when you forgot its layout. It was enormous, and all of it looked the same on the inside. She eventually found her room. It was finely decorated with tapestries, a fireplace, a soft bed, and countless other things. It seemed like the same room she had oh-so long ago, but it felt different. It didn’t feel like home, it felt like just another inn. She tossed herself onto her bed nonetheless and fell asleep quickly. Even if it didn’t feel like home, the bed was softer than any other she had slept in for at least three years.
The morning came quickly, and Luna didn’t want to wake up. From behind a drawn crimson curtain, the glow of morning light peeked through and subtly filled the room. It was quiet and peaceful, the only noise being the creaking of her bed when she moved. Home, she suddenly thought. Odd—that it only took one night’s rest to change how she felt about it. Perhaps it was because it was the first time in a long time that she could sleep in without being woken before the sun rose to be subject to a long day of riding and work.
She sat up in her bed after a time, doing nothing more than thinking. Who’s still here? she wondered. Are they different too, like Lars? Gods, I hope not.
She eventually gathered the strength to pull herself out of bed and dress herself, painful as it was with the wounds. They didn’t seem this bad yesterday, she thought. The bandages were already dirty, too. Best be seeing the doctor again.
The citadel was far more lively in the morning—there were plenty of people coming and going through the halls, lively chatter all about. It was an odd night, she told herself, that’s all. Everything’s fine now, I’m back home. It felt almost like a dream—the light of the morning, the smiling faces…plenty of which she didn’t recognize. Where did all these people come from, anyway? Last I remember, this place had no more than half…
The hall was full of people too, enjoying breakfast. Distinctly, on his large, wooden throne was Luna’s father and the duke of Blackmound—Larus End, dressed entirely in white save for his silver circlet. He was actually the duke of the Jardys territory in the North Winds, but people liked to call him the Duke of Blackmound for the sake of the citadel. It was gifted to him after he served as some sort of leader in the Kalthor military, but the North Winds soon broke away from the kingdom of Kalthor and became its own. Then the empire came and tried to unite all of the different parts of the Dargonain, but was only successful in certain areas. The North Winds became subject to the empire of the Northern Empire (formerly the Northern Kingdom)—under Emperor Alastar—and so did some other kingdoms, too; but Wenig, Noocarya, and Esgorth all remained on their own and so did the Eastern Territories. The trouble with this became that Wenig, Noocarya, and Esgorth are all separated from the Northern Empire by a sea, but the Eastern Territories are directly connected…it was all very confusing, and Luna didn’t take enough time bothering with it to have it fully down, but she remembered it was something like that.
Lars was at his father’s side, unamiable as he was the night before. He watched over the hall, eyes pensively scanning the tables.
“Luna,” someone greeted her after a good minute of her doing nothing more than looking around like a dolt, “come sit with us.”
She turned around to see a familiar face—Aegther Rethain, an old friend. He was almost unrecognizable at first, but it didn’t take long to recognize him. He had curly brown—almost orange—hair grown out down to the sides of his cheeks and a bit longer in the back, accompanied by a well-kept beard. He had a warm face, one worn of smiling and laughing for long years. He had a tall forehead and a short chin, but he was also quite thin. His eyebrows were almost melancholic, but somehow gave a friendly feel.
“Aegther,” she addressed him back.
“Come sit with us,” he repeated with a smile and a wave of the hand. He led her to a table where two others already sat—both she recognized. One was Eliyon Ruccas, Larus’ favorite knight. He had been at her father’s side for as long as she could remember, advising him whenever he’d ask. He looked quite similar to her brother, except that his hair was more wavy than curly, sort of like her own. He had a light beard, barely there and eyes that would constantly be lost in thought.
The other was Talion Gillot, a knight who never did fit. He had thick, curly black hair in contrast to the golden mane of Eliyon, and an ever-sadistic smile that haunted his emaciated face, only showing the skeleton of someone who perhaps once was.
“Take my seat, I’ll find another,” Aegther told her when he realized there was only one vacant seat. He disappeared into the crowds.
“Welcome home,” Eliyon said with a face like stone.
“It’s nice to be back,” Luna replied, saying the first thing that came to mind. Sort of. I’m still not sure what it’s like here.
“Nice to be back,” Talion scoffed, leaning far back in his chair, “The Lady of Blackmound hasn’t a clue of Dallion, does she?”
Eliyon whispered something to Talion in a fierce tone that Luna couldn’t quite make out. Talion said something back more calmly, then Eliyon backed off looking annoyed.
“Who’s Dallion?” she asked.
“No, she doesn’t,” Eliyon told Talion straight-out.
“I’d like to know,” she requested. Aegther reappeared with a chair.
“You’d have no idea how hard it is to find a chair at this time,” he laughed, “these crowds have been mad as of late!”
“Who’s Dallion?” Luna asked Aegther. He didn’t seem to hear her.
“Let’s put it this way—you’re climbing down a mountain, and you have your boot laced tight,” Talion began, leaning into the table, “then you get a rock in your boot. Not any old small little smooth pebble, but a real nasty, big, jagged one, aye? Well, if Blackmound is the mountain-climber and Larus is the foot, Dallion is the rock. Larus is holding this place together, keeping it from falling apart, and that rock just had to be slipped in there by the forces of nature trying to tear apart the climber. Even if nature didn’t mean it, it’s still there—and you can’t get rid of it without a hassle.”
“Horrible example,” Eliyon immediately blurted, “it’s nothing of your concern, Luna.”
“Lady End,” she corrected him. For some reason, she knew she should listen to Eliyon, but she had a sort of resentment towards him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“My apologies,” Eliyon said. She couldn’t tell if it was sincere or not. The smile had vanished from Aegther’s face, replaced with something that was either concentration or annoyance.
“Bloody tell her outright if you’re going to tell her,” Aegther suddenly said, “it’s not use beat’n around the bush. She’ll learn, one way or another eventually.”
“But not now,” Eliyon pleaded.
“Tell me,” Luna demanded.
“Larus is in trouble,” Eliyon finally gave in, “King Agnar feels he’s weak and losing his strength, so he wants to give it over to Dallion…but not yet. He’s waiting…” Eliyon lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “We can’t fight back because most of these men are Dallion’s.”
“Why not hand it down to Lars?” Luna asked.
“Lars offended the king, spoke out against him when he denounced Larus. It’s almost treason already, and it’s all weighing down on him,” Aegther explained, “I’m sorry that you had to come home at this time.”
It’s not home after all, Luna thought.