Under The Green Moon Chpt 1

Day was fading into night as the rider made his way towards the setting sun. The rider's scout uniform clinked with the weight of his chainmail. The leather woven within it was stained by the ash of his friends, now burned beyond all recognition. A large cut on his forehead bled sluggishly, the red liquid cutting a path through the ash on his face.
The path he road upon would lead him to the capital city of Azbec, named after its country. The man's glassy eyes searched the land ahead of him tiredly. Withered trees raised their limbs to the iron sky, longing for even a drop of water. Already many willows were wilting, mourning the loss of their green leaves. The grass, now a yellow stain upon the ground. The once fertile black soil had perished and had been replaced with useless sand that shifted with the unforgiving wind. The wind itself, even the gentlest of breezes, claimed life with every gust. The stones of Azbec were now an hour’s ride away.
The marvelous Red City of Azbec was the crowning jewel of the desert land. With its large markets the massive fortress was filled with an array of tapestries and fine drinks. From Parcha, to simple northern beer, the markets boomed with business when the city needed it most. Each building had intricately painted stonework and wooden balconies; each home bearing the insignia of the owner's family.
The Monastery stood above it all. A set of massive spires seemed to hold back the heavens, and in that moment, changed them forever. Its white base and blue spires contrasted heavily with the yellow haze of the desert wastelands. Invigorated with a sense of urgency, the rider urged his companion forward to the massive walls surrounding the city. Each wall was ten-feet-wide and impenetrable. The city zoomed by in a blur.
The faces of the guards were pinched with tension. The busy clamor of the city's denizens muffled words of war. The rumors of the hardships to come had them in an unusually sour mood. The winding narrow streets uncovered faces filled with disappointment at every turn. Even on the steps to the Monastery, scholars had plotted this date and exchanged apathetic glances.
The rider dismounted from his camel, and scrambled up the steps, all one thousand and one. The scholars were discussing human nature and recent experiments as the fully armored rider finally made it to the entrance of the ascension room.

After a long wait that seemed like hours, he scrambled into the chambers,"Your Excellency!" A young voice rang across the massive room. It was there, in the center of the large room that the Priest King Carnelian stood, watering some of his favorite flowers.
The elderly king turned towards the young speaker with a calm focus. "Oh, good evening. Please, have a seat."
The rider was distressed, though froze from being so close to a figure of importance. He managed to utter out a few words, "But Sire…"
"Silence. Sit and collect yourself. You're safe here." The salt stone scepter rang in Carnelian's hands. The stone was engraved with the markings of a coiling serpent. The aged ruler himself had skin like leather, and a pair of ageless eyes. The brown halo of his irises shown a lingering desire for aggression. No matter how much he preached peace, there was no doubt that a warrior hid within this husk of a man. The rider took a seat on the cold black marble floor.
"Sir, the Troitens, they have invaded the Lluverosa outpost. It was a massacre. There were no survivors." Carnelian's head snapped over to the rider his sharp gaze pinning the rider where he sat.
"How did you survive? If there truly were no survivors, surely you too should have perished? That uniform is that of a scouts… What is your name, young one?" He had a stern gaze, as if he understood what the young scout was about to say.
"Ferris Colgaust." He spat out his name; a curse that he'd inherited from his parents.
"The Colgausts have produced some of Azbec's finest captains and generals. It would be a terrible shame for them to hear that their youngest son had abandoned his post out of cowardice." Carnelian delivered his judgement with cold brutality. It wasn't too difficult to realize the scout had fled the fighting.
"Is there any way I can make up for what I've done?" Ferris pleaded his head hung in shame.
"You aren't the first. I can understand. You weren't a general that day. Be thankful for that. So go home, but be prepared. I'll need you soon for… other matters. Expect a message." Carnelian gave a curved smile, and showed Ferris the door, leaving the younger man puzzled by the last statement.
Ferris tried to argue, "But wait, what about my-"
"Won't tell a soul."

……………………………………………………

Afterwards, Carnelian went to the upper levels and, in a small supply closet, and changed himself. His brilliant gold and azure garb was replaced by that of the commoner's green. Using a cloak to hide in the shadows, he walked back to the garden and picked up a white rose. The mild fragrance invaded his nostrils, it was a shame that it was his second favorite flower.
It wasn't his favorite because of its beauty or its fragrance.
Carnelian took a petal, and gently stripped it from the white rose before placing it back into the soft and loamy soil. He took out a small knife, and cut out a gash in his hand. His hand shook from the pain, as he bled onto the white petal.

The white petal devoured the blood, and he started to chant softly. It would sound like gibberish to a commoner, but listening to it closely, one could tell that it was from a language as old as the city itself. Carnelian's form took on a striking transformation.
Carnelian's suntanned skin took on a softer shade of brown; his sunken eyes now appeared to be brimming with life. All of the old wrinkles that had stretched the length of his face fell away, and confidence loomed on the face that Carnelian had once called his own. He soon slipped into the shadows of the high walls, and disappeared under the cloak of night. The sun had fallen away, and now the green moon rose, shading the sky and the city in a sickly lime.
The month of plague had begun. Reappearing in an unremarkable alley in the dark city, he found a small tavern, the Brokemen. A small and cheap tavern full of unfortunate souls. So many stories, and tonight of all nights, it was a terrible night to have a curse.
"One Parcha." Carnelian had the appearance of his much younger self. No one could possibly recognize him. Save for one. A silhouette broke through the darkness.
A nephew of his. Not that the people who drank here noticed, but he had no sad sob story for how his life was ruined. A large black straw hat shaded his fair skin, hiding a set of slanted eyes. He wasn't from the desert, but a place where the land was still teeming with life. "Signor, I will need your attention for the next couple of moments. How about we take this to a more private location."
"Jerret, no one can hear us here. Besides, do you think anyone would think to look for me here?" Carnelian gave a devilish smile as the hazy yellow cup slid from the table into his hands. He downed it.
"They are still looking for me." Jerret scanned the room for potential threats. No one seemed to be looking at the two of them.
"Who?" Carnelian followed his old friend's tangent to see how he was doing.
"Ever since the Blackwood executions, they've been following me." Jerret kept his voice as low as he could, yet it still rumbled in the air as every word excited the air.
"Ah, well, maybe if you weren't so blunt with them…" Carnelian let his voice fade.
Jerret's teeth clenched. "They were eating people, Carnelian! What the hell did you expect me to do? Applaud them for executing people?"
"Executing known criminals, who have been evading the law at every turn. They allowed the people of Blackwood to breathe easy." Carnelian voice remained calm in and strong in logic.
"Justice does not favor one murderer over another." Jerret muttered, it was the same saying he always said to himself.
Carnelian's response was frigid, "What happens when your executioner looks you dead in the eye, and sentences you to death? Or heaven forbid, a mob comes in and does half the job for him."
Jerret gave a scoff as he threw his hat on the counter. "Well," He gave a small chuckle, "he better make sure that they kill me the first time."
"Trust me, the way they hunt you, it would be a travesty." Carnelian gave a small chuckle, as he downed the last of his Parcha, and started on another.
Jerret sighed. "Hey, why did you bring me all the way to the desert for anyways?"
Carnelian's smirk melted off of his younger face. "There's been a massacre. At Lluverosa."
"The Troitens?" Jerret let the weight of everything else fall away. He sat up straighter, making sure to listen to whatever needed to be said.
"Yes." Carnelian looked down towards the dying flicker of a candle light. "Lluverosa is a fortnight's march. But that's the least of our troubles."
"Huh? Why?" Jerret didn't understand yet, but as a Lord, he needed to.
"They may know about the ancient arts.” Jerret gave the old Azbec Lord a look, so Carnelian continued his story. "The Lords and Ladies are the highest titleholders in the land. Keepers of the ancient tomes."
"Magic, really?" Jerret quivered in his voice, holding back a laugh, but failing miserably. His father used to tell him stories about flying salamanders that breathed fire and old bearded men using magic from tomes. It seemed ridiculous to him that his uncle was telling him that those fairy tales were real. "Real funny. Like our hopes of standing a chance against them are now bound to pulling cards out of thin air."
Carnelian face adopted a dark look and his voice struck out full of the malice from the shadows around him. His will dimmed the small wicks of flame to the brink of pure darkness. "Listen, boy. And listen well. The only reason that the angry mobs outside aren't parading your corpse across my city, is by the magic holding them off. Our meetings, are safe due to my magic. Get your head on straight. You are a Lord of the city state of Blackwood. Have you any shame?"
Jerret averted his eyes, his once smug composure crumbling to pieces. The lights soon returned to the half extinguished room. Jerret nervously glanced towards the entrance. Carnelian wasn't lying. The mob followed him. Each one lit by torchlight, all of them very weary from traveling across the desert out of a twisted sense of vengeance.
Jerret looked back and fort between the mob and Carnelian. "Any reason why you invited me only?"
"Because this time, everyone's here." Carnelian's voice was as sharp as the piercing howl of the desert winds that swept the dunes. "Follow me."
He grasped the wrist of the young Lord, only to escape into the darkness once again. In an instant they were at the Monastery's steps.
"How did you…?" Jerret gave a quick look at his surroundings. They had gone several hundred yards in a few steps.
"Do you not listen, or are you simply deaf? I know your father Lord Black, goddess rest his soul, never hit his children. So I know he didn't slap you stupid..." Carnelian kept mumbling on, as he walked up the flight of stairs; he snapped each of his fingers. A salt stone staff appeared as he reached the main entrance.
"You still haven't answered my question." Jerret, following Carnelian like a shadow. The elusive nature of his movements was ever present.
Carnelian turned around, and put a hand on Jerret's shoulder. "Jerry. You and your father are some of my most trusted friends. As you already know, I'm getting old, and I need you to help me complete the seal."
Jerret raised his brow. He hadn’t been called that in about a decade. "Seal? On what?"
"I'll tell you more once the other Lords arrive." Carnelian began to speak softly, as if his very will was a fleeting cry from its former self. "Because unlike the ambush, this is a private discussion."
Jerret nodded at the sincerity in his uncle's voice.
"A being of pure evil is breaking free." Carnelian whispered.
Jerret shook his head, "Seriously, why don't we talk about it? If it's so urgent?"
"There is a curse to its name. We will need to talk in the ancient speech on the matter." Carnelian seemed to speak under his breath, as if someone, or something was listening.
"What ancient speech?" Jerret tried to rationalize the situation. He eventually chalked it up to the old king having simply drunk too much Parcha.
Carnelian was awfully disappointed, muttering, "Donovan, why didn't you tell him?"
"How does my father have anything to do with this?" Jerret may not have known anything, but he had inherited his father's sharp senses.
"Well, you'll learn." Carnelian shrugged as he entered through the entrance of the Monastery. He wanted to give the old palace a new coloring. Maybe a flaming red to capture the passion of older days.
Though that thought was abruptly stopped by the sound of flapping wings. He conjured from his hand a messenger bird, and quickly wrote a message
“What was that for?” Jerret looked at the elaborate handwriting. It was a shame that being from Blackwood had given him little opportunity to learn the languages of exotic places.
Carnelian coughed a bit, “Just tying up a loose end. Someone who didn’t get the message just yet.”


Both continued walking, uncertain of what might develop on that cursed night.