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Fantasy novel in progress about the kingdom of Tarea |
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Blood sprinkled down through the man’s outstretched hand, with moonlight shimmering from above. The liquids ruby outline glistened, while beneath it held its blackened breath. The change in color that oxygen had brought held a subtle beauty as it dripped and gushed. Maybe it was meant to be for this man to see, the rivers and rain that he tried to contain. With each breath and outrush, each gasp an explosion, he had maybe a moment left as he dangled from the parapet. “Grith Nar Sal Kood.” Road the wind with his last labored breath. A final reprieve granted to the dead man as a knee remained dug into the small of his back. The stake that pinned him against gravity’s will, preventing his fall to the roads below. Men always seemed lighter, once drained of life, if only due to their spirit being carried away with death. The guards’ hands he arranged across his chest, laced around his flask to appear more the drunk. The man could have relaxed like this just a few hours prior. With his back resting against the keep and his legs propped upon the wall. His brow fixed on the sunset that was soon to crest the Caranal peak, and blinded any other guards looking towards the West. The red and gold that painted the plains, in the last moments before the sun fell, was friend to rogue and couple alike. While captivating the latter it allied with the villain, just prior to darkness’s gentle embrace. The barracks held a subtle glow with its granite foundation, much different from the streets below with their mudded complexion. Care had been taken on this regimental home, to align faith in its constantly changing hands. The redwood doors were intricately carved, with doe and stag leaping across the pane, its handle inlaid with filigrees of gold and pewter vines that were expertly set upon their hinges. Despite its weight, the door glided like a maid to her marriage bed, no giggles or sighs, but shyness instead. Kellen swirled and molded the crisp February air, morphing the cities’ gentle breeze into a torrent for his needs. Like a ball he juggled its will between his palms, back and forth, circling around his arms. He was always captivated that the wind answered his call, willing and waiting for him to control. He pushed and pulled through the now open frame, silencing the torches that would scream out to the men that guarded the halls. “A thief! A killer! Arrest him at once. Hang him from the roof with the rest of his friends!” Alas, they slept once his magic had accomplished its work, draining the stones of their color and hue; black and lifeless what a delight. Each step inside was muffled by design, for this keep was meant to comfort the Knights of Vorsai. Not known to forgo luxury, they pranced upon silken rugs and carpet alike, while every hall was lined with trophies for him to hide. The patrols were patient and held lengthy yawns, buying time for his silence to move in from behind. A slice through their windpipe or a snap through bone and the halls for the night were his to roam. Every door in the hall craved for his lust, strumpets flaunting their skirts and healthy bust. He showed no jealousy for the men that planted their flag. For each room he left was no longer theirs to lay claim. Each heart that his tanto stopped, another brother was left to stack in tomorrows’ pyre. To rest in peace with their unfulfilled desires. When all were gone to their final resting place, he could not help but smile at his accomplishment. Twenty-seven soldiers strewn about their beds never again to rise and see dawn’s light. . |
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