Pangerath

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Pangerath

PROLOGUE

Sit back and let me whisper words to set upon the pages you about to read and let the world of Pangerath unfold with each turn of the page. But first we must go back some years, for in order for you to understand its present we must first revisit its past.

The origins of Pangerath actually began thousands of years ago in Upper Egypt, but that is a different story, for another time. The story I am to impart upon you takes place thousands of years after its creation and its compelled isolation from the motherland.

It is an inspirational story of how the love of true friends, faced with unimaginable tragedy and overwhelming odds try to persevere through the darkest of times.

Do the daily choices we make determine our path, or is fate universally unavoidable, written in stone, by the hand of destiny?

This...is their story...their destiny.

If ever a place existed that embodied natures stunning beauty, tranquility, peace and innocence, Pangerath would be named such. For no place on Earth could compare to this strange and curious land hidden in the oceans of the world. Unseen by the technologies of modern man, save for the few who unknowingly happen to cross its path.

Since the time of the great pharaohs magical forces have preserved the lands, protecting and hiding its secrets from the outside world, while keeping those that live here from leaving its mystical borders.

Tales and stories of its existence have circulated for millennia. Some who have caught a glimpse of this mysterious land mistakenly called it Atlantis or the lost lands of Lemuria in the Indian oceans, as well as the submerged continent of Zealandia. Others who were in its proximity have mysteriously disappeared, leading to the notions of the Bermuda triangle

All can be true of Pangerath. Its beauty rivals Plato's accounts of Atlantis, its secrets more perplexing than that of the Bermuda triangle. Make no mistake there is only one Pangerath, a magical world, an anachronism within a world of modern man.

The inhabitants of Pangerath believe that their land is the only land in the whole of the world, which includes an archipelago of islands that surround and shift with Pangerath. Evolving at a much slower pace than that of modern man, who, at this moment are at the dawn of the twenty first century and living across the great waters to the south. Pangerath is at a time modern man would call the middle ages.

A time of tested friendships and loyalties. An age of good and evil, goblins, wizards, witches, Orcs, dragons and heroic knights, as well as various other strange and magical creations walk this land.

Rolling hills with harmoniously flowing bright green grass lay paths through strong and sturdy oaks as well as giant redwoods. There, hidden amongst the mighty trees is the magical forest which runs along the southwest side of the island all the way up to the north where it vanishes into Lake Tyrn.

Lake Tyrn, separated by the valley of twin lakes, empties into the grand oceans to its east and west. Ice cold pure drinking waters from Hellwyn Mountains supply Lake Tyrn's western repository by way of two massive beautiful waterfalls that free fall into Lake Tyrn's mouth resting at the foot of Hellwyn, distributing its life giving waters as it slowly drains west and south into a medley of slow moving streams that run through not only the magical forest in the west, but villages and towns throughout the south, until finally reaching the south western cliffs of Pangerath where it dives a hundred feet or so into the great ocean.

Lake Tyrn's eastern bay, which rests upon a hilltop, also accepts a waterfall from Hellwyn but on a less grandiose scale. The eastern bay has a small waterfall that drains down into the great Lake Windemere.

Lake Windemere is the receiver and the giver of life sustaining waters for the rest of Pangerath. Its spidery network of converging streams, rivers and wetlands runs from its position in the northeast to the west where it meets up with its sister and the western slow moving stream. Then flows southward until it finally flushes into the great ocean off the south eastern cliff, mirroring its sister in the west. Waters that help supply relief to all of Pangerath, its crops and vegetation, livestock and grasslands as well as all of Pangerath's marvelously magical and diverse population.

The lands are divided by three kingdoms, each with their respective boundaries proclaimed by flags or sigils displaying their crests mounted on poles at various border locations throughout their respective lands.

There is Bubastis in the southern hemisphere with its Golden banners and open winged black falcon as its emblem.

Then there is the hub and center for all activities and trade, Tanis, in middle Pangerath with its banner of red, with a coiled black serpent displaying its fangs at its center.

Finally, in the north is the tranquil Piramesses, and its triangular white banner trimmed in gold with the beautiful blue eye of Horus at its center.

Each location has its own tall and fortified guard towers that ring out on sight of advancing danger. They are at peace, for now.

The royalty write the laws by which the villagers residing inside their borders must abide by. Garrisons of knights protect these borders and the villages and towns upholding these laws.

All three monarchs are content to rule their respective lands peacefully, with only minor skirmishes and border disputes, that are usually resolved without bloodshed. How long they can hold onto their land, is about to be challenged after so many years of peace.

The breath of free air entitled to all is about to be suppressed by the foul stench of submission. Unopposed; one cruel, immoral and malevolent wizard who revels in the fear he inspires in others, will alone try to bring death and destruction to them all.

In the past few years' rumors abound throughout the villages of Bubastis and Tanis, of children going missing, with no clues, nor reason, many believing he the primary suspect.

No longer, content to remain isolated in his small area to the far south. He has long waited his opportunity. Building his beastly armies in the south and hiding them in the deep carved out caves of the underworld.

Now, with his vast army fully stocked he feels it is time. Time for his rule of Pangerath, to enforce his will, to take what he wants and to not abide by the meanderings of silver-spooned Kings that he deems are not his equal.

Confined by his ego by what he deems his destiny, his right. To rule above supposed rulers, their lands and peoples. The engine of war stands ready, fueled by his obsession.

His name is Malus. A maleficent, pale yet good looking man with a clean complexion, save for a small but thick scar at the top corner of his left eye, delivered there by the ring of his father when he was only seven years old.

Standing six foot or so with shoulder length silver wavy hair, pulled tightly back, creating a widows peak. His strong high cheek boned face gives way to sunken deep set eyes of green, blue, sometimes grey eyes, dependent upon his mood. However when mad they turned pure black and wild, absent pupils. He stood with his normal tight pursed mouth that seemed to have never produced a smile. Wearing a black leather shirt and pants tucked inside black leather boots, with black leather forearm bands that stretch from the elbow down and over his knuckles, held in place by metal framed finger holes. A black hooded cloak that nearly touches the ground about his neck, supported by way of red pinning gems below each shoulder carved in the shape of a serpent.

His inclination to go to war stems from his upbringing in the deep south of Pangerath and of not to ever again bow to the demands of another. To rather take what he wants, when he so desires, with no regard for rule or of the consequences of his actions.

Raised by a hard, iron-fisted and disciplined father some forty plus seasons ago, who taught him the art of magic's at an early age; who was also taught by his father.

His mother, having died upon his birth, gave rise to a restricted love from his father.

Not an onerous young lad, but a censured un-loving upbringing by his dominant father aided in corrupting the innocence of the malleable young boy into his current demeanor and non-compliance to another's rule.

Malus's only desire as a child was the approval of his father. He absorbed the abuse at his hand, owing it to his own insubordination and death of his mother at his birth. At the tender age of seven or so Malus had started to realize his father absence from their home on many a night. And even though his father afflicted him, he still yearned for his father's attentions and craved for his company even though it usually produced a beating, but he was all the family he had.

One chilly night he covertly followed his father on one of his outings. Hiding in the nearby woods of the magical forest he spied his father and a woman, a white witch in fact. His heart torn that his father's love can so easily be given to another, yet not him. He ran home, shaken and teary-eyed, no beating could have hurt him more. His blood boiled with rage as he waited for his father's return, confronting him when he arrived.

Not one to be questioned, least of all by a child, his father flew into a rage once again, this time striking Malus in the face with his right hand, a hand that supported a black and red stoned golden ring. Tearing the flesh from the top corner of his left eye, it was the father's final mistreatment of the boy. A permanent scars remains, and the ring used in this deformity now rests on the hand of the abused, a memento, that no man shall ever strike him again.

This was the start of Malus's unwavering fortitude, to take what he wants, when he wants it. To never succumb to fear, and never again be abused by another. This was also when his overwhelming, absolute, pure hatred of the white witches began, whom he considered the destroyer of his family and the love he so hankered for, but was given so easily to one of them.

He stands a sorcerer of sorcerers, claiming himself omnipotent. His knowledge of the arcane arts is unequalled. Many who have tested his power are no longer. For he, like his father, has become the abuser.

CHAPTER 1--TO BE KING

A storm of war brewed in lower Pangerath, in a village that rested on the outskirts of King Jyl's castle in the kingdom of Bubastis. As the cold wind blew down from the northern cliffs of Hellwyn Mountain and winter began its encroachment, trees shed their multi colored leaves and prepared to take on the bite of winter.

Dark clouds gathered and wrestled in the night sky. creating powerful winds that tossed about the autumn leaves into a whirlwind. Proud trees bent to the breaking point; thick branches succumbed and were carried off by the strong winds embrace.

Screams drowned out the winds howl that night, as newly awoken terrified villagers gave un-cannied chill to the darkness when fires suddenly erupted, sending searing high flames to shower the night sky with smoldering embers, that floated upwards to dance along the gusting howled wind. Likened to fire-flies flickering a bright brilliant glow one moment, then gone the next as they are carried to the heavens.

The village bell rung out, warning all to abandon their homes for safety. Followed by the rush of scouts on horseback riding hard for the castle.

The smoke and smell of cottages burning scented the air as it circulated over and above the castle walls, erecting the sleeping soldiers on guard to stand firm and hastily look about, finally hearing the village bell as they do.

The panic-struck villagers, some barely dressed, scattered about. Confused and frightened some ran to the moat that confines the castle demanding entrance and safety inside. Some took to running towards the forest in the west or straight north towards Tanis.

The Kings castle, stood alone in the darkness and cold of night, surrounded by tall stone curtain walls, a deep wide moat of about 30 feet ran around the land that encircled the castle keep and temples inside. A drawbridge imbedded between two gatehouses to the south, served as the only entry point inside. It slowly opened, allowing the scouts and frightened citizens entry.

Massive watchtowers on each corner around the castle held archers as did the walkways that connected them, now being flooded with even more archers bringing more arrows along with them, as well as half-asleep, un-armored soldiers who join the fray atop the walkways.

Standing at the embrasures they anxiously looked on, through fogged eyes they witnessed the frantic running about and fired homes that brought the alarm.

The ramparts were lit. Huge black cauldrons of hot oil that sat at each corner on the base of the towers. Oil, that when in need could be poured and lit to stream through the narrow trenches that ran along the intersection between the walkway and battlements eventually emptying through small holes located every few inches, causing a shower of fire to rain down onto unsuspecting armies below should they try to breach the high walls.

Troops scrambled to suit up, mount their horses, or run with sword and shield over the drawbridge, forming their respective ranks. Barded horse soldiers at the vanguard, followed by infantry brandishing long double edged spears, to deter any cavalry charge. Then heavy armored infantry with sword and shield. All stood guard at the forefront of the moat that surrounded the castle walls.

Relayed from the scouts, the royal guard advised the king and his family of the armies forming near their southern gate, then escorted them to the royal throne room where they could be better defended behind thick heavy stone-carved ornamental doors and the elite royal guardsmen within, who would willingly relinquish their lives for the safety of the royal family.

Dark clouds that twisted in the night sky began to slow as if they wished to witness what is to happen below. They broke slightly opened to a full moon, a hunter's moon, lighting the battlefield below, revealing the intruding army of black armored knights mounted on their armor laden warhorses, wielding long black serrated lances.

Behind them stood goblins of various shades of green. Wiry creatures, with leathery sickly skin, pocked with small black blemishes. Tight creases wrinkle the entirety of their face, giving them an old grotesque and vile look. Wearing putridly sweaty torn leather clothing, some with leather studded gloves tipped with sharpened metal fingernails.

Mischievous runts with a hatred of humans, their mouths opened wide displaying hundreds of blackened and decayed thorn like teeth. Hunched over and huffing heavily, dribbling a foul smelling chunky drool. Their long bony narrow noses curved downwards to a point just above their snarled upper lip, as well as large pointed ears with black wax at its core, added to their grotesque demeanor. At a height of about 4 feet they stand eager to fight, holding small swords, and or knives, their love of war echoed in there black eyes.

Standing behind the goblins are the Orc's. Towering above the humans and goblins alike, eight to ten feet tall with protruding tusks on each side of their lower lip and small pointed ears. With little to no hair and a constant snarl, making their demeanor devilish and unsightly. The huge muscle ridden fair skinned orcs, some having definitely eaten to excess, displayed by their plump dumpy bellies and mirrored hanging chins, while others are the complete opposite of their fattened brethren, flaunting hulking muscles of immense proportions. Battle scars canvas most of their bodies. Most have huge black boils spread out across their backs and chest, no doubt from the polluted wastes they sleep in, in the dank underground. Thick loincloths as well as animal pelts are worn around their waists, with spiked leather armor straddling their shoulders, wrists and shins. Some have taken to hanging skulls and strung together teeth and bones of their victims flashed across their necks and shoulders and even the spines of victims fastened together and running down the outside of their own spines. All to flaunt their prowess in battle. Devoid of footwear their huge dirty blackened feet and nails support their mammoth body. Their weapon of choice rested on their massive shoulders, were large war hammers of thick wooden shafts imbedded in massive tree trunks. Or two-handed double-sided, massive war axes.

With a hatred of man and a love of war, they waited, grunting heavily at the fight to come. They are all here because of their desire for war and carnage. Or maybe for fear of Malus's retaliation should they not heed his call. But make no mistake, the blood of humans and thrill of victory topped with the spoils of war and lamentations of their enemies, would provide them sufficient compensation.

Malus installed himself atop a hill in the distance overlooking his army and the poorly defended and outnumbered castle ahead. With the hood of his cloak drawn, shadowing his face inside. Resting loosely in the palm of his right hand is the head of a long black crystal staff adorned with an open-mouthed silver serpent with ruby eyes and ivory teeth.

As the two armies stood idle, the heavily pounded hearts of man, horse and beast released warm exhaust into the air that gently misted the battlefield before them. Soldiers held back reins, jostling with their impatient neighing horses. The clang of metal legs banging against each other can be heard coming from both sides.

King Jyl's warhorses were draped with caparisons of gold and black falcons that covered their flan-chards and croupiers. Segmented plated criniers protected their necks while horned chafrons embellished their heads. Only the white of the horses bulging unnerved eye can be seen, creating an ominous, threatening look. The men on horse, strapped in armor of silver, crested with the falcon of their kingdom, pulled down their visors. Fighting their wanting horses, the mounted warriors held their golden lance in their left hand while the base of the stock is tucked deep between their arm and metal stomach. Attached just above their lance is a small circular metal shield of not much weight, more for deflection then actual defense. Hanging on their right are their sheathed long swords affixed length-wise to the saddle, the grip and pummel facing the neck of their horse.

Malus stretched out his left arm high into night sky, gripped hard his black crystal staff beneath his right hand then slammed the staff into the earth, creating a tremendous sound of rolling thunder beneath the surface, that rumbled before him. His army below grunted, then commenced their assault on King Jyl's castle.

The king's ground defenses stood nervous but ready, their eyes showed the horror of what may be their last battle, for they have not seen war and are not battle tested, but this is their home and their way of life is being assaulted; so they await the approaching galloping riders as per command.

The captain tried to ease his men and breathe fire to their nerves by standing high in his saddle and shouting out "Men our time has come to show these unprovoked, un-honorable things before you, that a man defending his home and family, is of an dragon. Hold strong our ethos our spirit and let them hear our roar, so that they may comprehend what they have awoken this day, their last of days. Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!, Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!."

The whole of men roared hard and angered, along with their captain who dismounted to stand at the forefront of the vanguard, too fight alongside his men.

Seeing the enemy is within archer range, the captain dropped his right arm signaling to the towers. Dipping their arrows into the containers of flame, hidden behind the wall at their feet, raising their bows and drawing back their flaming arrows the archers released, sending a steel toothed shroud of flame through the air, shadowing the moon above, lighting the ground below.

Screams of anguish broke the silence, as arms, legs, heads and torso of man, beast and horse are pierced by the burning, metal tipped serrated arrows, setting some targets clothing ablaze.

A chaotic scene of shrieking creatures engulfed in flames erupted as the un-armored orcs and goblins scurry to rid themselves of the clothes melting to their skin.

After the flurry of arrows have found their mark, the sound of the enemies' horse can be heard neighing and breathing heavily, echoing through the air, followed by the intense gallop of heavy mounts that vibrated the ground before them as they sped full gallop towards the castle hoping to avoid any arrows that may find them.

The captain ordered the Bubastis knights on horse to ride forward to meet the opposing cavalry while commanding foot soldiers to hold their ground and await the outcome before them. Archers ceased their onslaught once the horsemen neared the center of the battlefield as the moons-light became hidden behind a cloud, shrouding their knighted comrades in darkness.

Armor and chainmail clad soldiers on the front lines pulled down their metal visors, kneeled to one knee, raised their bronze tipped spears under their right arms. In their left forearms they gripped tight their body length, bronze, rectangular shields. Shields that not only display the crest of Bubastis, but also a protruding metal spike. Side by side the soldiers created a wall of metal spiked shields. Resting the shield on the ground before them they clashed the bottom of their spears to shield creating a thunderous sound of metal on metal as they continued to roar ever -loud, trying to cover their cavalry's gallop and limited numbers, as well as intimidate their foes.

Bubastis's knighted horse numbered about one hundred, one third that of Malus's black knights. They tore hard earth beneath their shoed heavy horse as they approached the fast moving black knights. Lowering their lances to mid-level they clashed in a tumultuous sound of lance on lance, lance on metal, all of which shattered to sounds of pain as men were flung from their horse to fall on their metal backs, sparking the ground as they hit. Un-mounted horses fled the crime scene to run where they may. They may be the only survivors of the ensued onslaught. The remaining felled horsed knights of Bubastis equipped themselves with their long swords trying to hold their own, but the lance of the enemy easily found its prey, turning red the silver armor, a bloodbath followed.

The heavily outnumbered knights succumbed to the superior numbers and superior skills of the black knights, who not only removed man from horse, but trampled the fallen under horse-foot gouging armor to body, crushing visor to face.

Hearing the screams of his men, the captain tightened his jaw and shouted out,

"FOR OUR BROTHERS!... FOR OUR HOME!....MARCH!"

Hurriedly they marched forward, finally meeting the advancing black knights with Orcs and goblins at their rear.

The lance of the dark knights was easily longer than that of the spear thrusting soldiers, making short work of the valiant foot soldiers. King Jyl's men are no match for the pure strength and fortitude of this army, the abominations before them have no regard for life so they fear not, nor care not, as they slash and swing there massive weapons at the fear ridden opponents in front of them, at times killing their allies in the process. Screams of agonizing death shattered the once peaceful lands, as soldiers and knights, fell helplessly to Malus's army

The foul smell of blood mixed with sweat and dirt from horse and troops could be tasted through their panting mouths. The land before them, once pure and green is now blanketed with corpses. Feet soaked with the blood of the fallen march onward to death or glory which ever may come first. The whole of the dark knight's horse is drenched and dripping with the blood of the dyeing and dead, flung up upon their gallop, even their chins drip as a beard drenched red.

Orc's rip arms from torso, goblins slice and bite off pieces of the opponents exposed flesh, veiling their faces in mans blood, of which they voraciously lick clean.

With not even a thought of the fallen friend or foe in front of them, Malus's army stepped on or over the bodies as they advanced towards the castle, followed closely behind by Malus and his four powerful harbingers.

Harbingers, who desire power, fear and riches, and they believe Malus can afford them this. They are evil incarnate and have no feelings of remorse, no soul, they are in fact dead inside, seen in the depths of their black eyes should you get that rare opportunity. Their true pleasure and disgusting lust is the fear they provoke in the hearts of anyone they come across, attested by the poor souls of man, woman and even younglings, who dare to glance at them, who were then immediately, immorally and viciously dealt with and sent screaming in agony, to the afterlife.

Standing roughly seven foot, these deplorable wizards are tattooed with cryptic hieroglyphic symbols, as well depictions of the type of magic they wield. All tattooed in the color representing there disciplines. Red for fire, blue for water, brown for earth and white for air, covering every inch of their bodies, not even their eyelids are spared.

Wearing colored leather clothing from neck to bottom, their only armor, for they require mobility rather than heavy armor, relying on their magic's for protection as well as attack, they do not wield those barbaric weapons. Covering said armor is a long shiny robe in the colors of their respective disciplines. It is fastened in the front by buttons made of twine dipped in wax. Down the center of the robe where the buttonholes meet the buttons, is a wide engraved motif of hieroglyphs, that runs down the front from the neck to the very bottom, just above the ankles, the same design is engraved on the cuffs of the deep hanging sleeves, that are always displayed at their mid sections, hiding their cupped tattooed hands inside. That same design of hieroglyphs circles the edge of the deep hoods that cover and shadow their tattooed faces.

Peto the water high priest wore blue leather under a dark blue shiny robe, with light blue motifs. Sakkara the fire priest wore red leather and shiny red robe, with black motifs, Setna the air priest in white with black motifs and Herihor the earth priest, dark brown leather, and shiny dark brown robe with green motifs. Each wielded colored wooden staffs that showcased small, translucent crystal balls at their tops, with their respective magic's animated inside.

The king's un-battled tested men fought for their lives, their homes and the ones they love. Valiantly and heroically sacrificing their lives, knowing they were far out-numbered and over-matched by their blood lusting warmongering opponent. Given no quarter and no respect their honor repaid with butchery and an undignified death.

The advancing army is commanded to stop. Water bearers extinguish the dry mouthed, panting and over-fought beasts of Malus' horde. Only the whites of eyes can be seen beneath their victim's blood, now painted on the skin of the orcs and goblins.

As the troops replenished, the harbingers advanced forward and began their own assault. Summoning their magic's, words mumbled beneath their breath, their staffs held straight out, trained on the archers high above atop the castle walls, enveloping the unsuspecting archers to death by flame and ice.

Setna the wind harbinger spoke, summoning a powerful wind that transformed the dark clouds above into a large menacing hand, grasping the archer's from their stone walkways, violently slamming them to their deaths below, or crushing them into the solid stone castle of which they stood to protect.

After only an hour or so of mystical fighting, Malus and his army stood victorious at the oak drawbridge. Only puzzles of men remain as flesh and blood fall and hang from the stone walls. Where once stood man on ramparts now limbs are hung, convulsing and twisted, ripped from their bodies by the harbingers.

The still young night is tainted with the sounds of the fallen, deafening and desolate moans of anguish reflected the slaughter they were submitted to, as goblin and orc take their pleasure on the defeated souls that beg for instant death, but denied, only to be tortured evermore. A human delicacy for the orc's who are hunched over, crunching bone and ripping flesh as they eat the dead and helpless dying.

Malus pointed his black staff at the drawbridge then yelled out "Incendia," an enormous ball of flame gathered in front of his staff then darted towards the castle gate, incinerating the wooden obstacle. Smoke and flame ridden splinters of debris is all that remained, where once a sturdy drawbridge resided.

Herihor the earth harbinger lowered his staff to touch the ground before him "Pontis" he shouted The ground rumbled beneath and in front of his feet, then rose to produce a land bridge from where they stood, over the moat into the castle grounds past the once held drawbridge, to the innards of the helpless castle and their sure-to-be victory inside. The Gods did not show favor to the Kings men this night for it is all but over now.

Malus's army entered the walls killing the remaining, unarmed residents without prejudice. Young and old, man, woman and child alike, he had no regard for life, only his twisted, un-quenched, nefarious desire to control and create pandemonium, and to see the resolve of his army in action.

Onto the royal palace they marched. The sound of metal bending and buckling echoed as the massive doors to the great keep were flung open by a simple wave of Malus's staff.

The royal guards of twenty of so were quickly dealt with by magical fire that melted their armor to their screaming flesh, while magical winds that drew inward crushed the metal skin and the bones within. Ice magic froze men to their place as the earth harbinger cracked ceiling to fell debris, smashing the newly formed ice statues beneath it weight..

The vast room, surrounded with large, tall, tainted windows showcased great, unconfirmed battles of knight and horse, portraying in a false light, a heroic king.

Swinging at the center of the room was a large golden chandelier of lit candles that sent shadows dancing throughout the room. Beautiful floors of marble painted with the landscape of the lands spanned the large room. A once pristine floor now assaulted with the blood of the royal guard mixed with the mud upon the feet of Malus and his harbingers.

Two huge white columns at the rear of the room opened to two thrones, the larger of which is gold while the other smaller is of silver, both adorned with falcons atop its back. They rest on a platform of red carpet atop ten stairs. The thrones where King Jyl and his wife ruled so proudly are now all that stands between the king, his family and Malus.

The gentle altruistic and just king of twilight years, his wife and two sons the tender age of not more than ten, clothed in their sleep-wear of roped closed robes, trembled at the rear of the thrones, huddled together in fear they await Malus's judgment.

Fearful but needing to defend his family as well as his honor, King Jyl's trembled hand on sword pointed at Malus "Why Malus? WHY?" the kind demanded.

"What have we ever done to deserve such effrontery?" he screamed again at Malus who marches on them cocky and confident.

Slamming staff to marbled floor, Malus responded with such vigor, "You and your kind sit upon your thrones so high and mighty, belauding yourselves, emasculating those you deem below your high seat...My Father included."

"Your father was mad! And was it not by your hand he died?" The king interrupted.

Peering up at the king, Malus does not answer. Maybe denial, maybe psychotic, never-the-less, he brushes the Kings accusation aside in favor of his own sermon "MY! Father was not given a throne or the luxuries that come with such an un-earned position. I charge you, the catalyst of his eventual demise... and place you in final judgment, in contempt for your blood line and its auspicious upbringing." Snarled, Malus.

Pacing, Malus accosted once again "Why should you remain in rule and I squander in dirt, for what scraps remain? When it is I who is the stronger and more worthy ruler, where my father failed, I will surely succeed, as you can now, clearly see."

King Jyl stood forward placed his family at his back as his sword drew precariously. "I did not ask to rule, it was my birthright given to me by my father who earned it, as his father before him earned it. I have taken nothing from you?" screamed the angered king.

WRITTEN BY: 2017 WARREN KENNETH CLYDE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED PANGERATH