Shuuda

I do not know if there is any actually system to stop people posting in your work. However, if you say in you topic that you do not wish for anyone to post in it, I'm sure that at least mature members will respect your wishes. In other words: You cannot handle criticisms. If you get spam comments or pure flames, you report them to a mod: But if you get a criticism, you should respect the opinions of other or even take into account the idea that they critic might actually be on to something, in which case they are helping you greatly. Praise and "good" comments might give you an ego boost, but a truthful comment might actually help you improve. I recommend that you change your view on comments that do not praise you. P.S: I am fully aware that you a probably referring to me when you talk about negative comments.

And now it is time for me to drop me A-bombs on this! Just kidding, but I am going to make a couple points of criticism: 1)Firstly, your world building could do with a bit of depth to it. It put it simply, your nations resemble the kind of crap you see in the Fire Emblem games: - Country X is the military land. - Country C is the knowledge/Mage land. It is far too shallow. Gale is the military nation: but is it a military dictatorship? Or is it based on Feudalism? As for Veline, what makes it so well off? And since you describe both as empires, how so? Do they have colonies, or are they just ruled by a person with the title of Emperor or Empress? 2)There are many problems with Cynthia. Firstly, the fact that she was born blind, but needs needs no kind of assistance whatsoever, even worse is that she can fight and you even state that she could "She could see the wall that stopped", when did she get her vision impairments cure? Secondly, personality wise she seems a bit too perfect. I am guessing that the problems stem from the fact this character is a self insertion: to quote Wiki. Although this is not a fanfiction, this idea still applies to beginner writings. 3)A few examples of grammatical errors I spotted: Wouldn't "and seen as a weakling." make more sense? Using the word "bloodshed" in that sentence does not seem right. Perhaps the use of "gave" made it seem weird. "The soldier shed the blood of the unarmed scouts." "The soldiers caused bloodshed for the unarmed scouts." 4)The pacing feels a bit too fast for the start of a story, which is partly what causes the shallowness of your characters and nations. You skip out on very important things such as properly introducing your main character, who gets no description of her physical appearance. Then you go straight into briefly talking about lots of events that could have been expanded upon in more detail, things such as: - Who exactly are these corrupt soldiers? - The main characters declaration of rebellion. Why did she start a rebellion in the first place, knowing that she had no armed forces: seems like a stupid thing to do. - Why did King Roses IV try to break the treaty, knowing it would invoke the wrath of two nations which have superior military might? Does he not have any common sense at all? --------------- I will not comment any further, nor will I respond to anyone who flames my post. I truly mean no offence to you on any personal level, nor do I wish to disencourage you from writing. I give you these comments to help you spot the flaws in your work and hopefully learn from them. Good luck in the future.

I shall begin with my conclusion: that was very good. Therefore I can only really nitpick at a few points: 1) I noticed that a few times you use a comma before the word "too", for example: It does feel a bit unnecessary, it just does not sound normal when I say that line with that pause. 2) There are one or two points where you do not start a new paragraph when a new character speaks, for example: Remember that you should begin a new paragraph when a different character starts talking, even if it is only a small line. So really, it should look like this: 3) That felt rather unneeded, there are better ways to emphasise his frustration: such as metaphors, making him express his frustration physically, or some other imagery. 4)From what I have been taught, you should not use abbreviations such as "don't" or "couldn't" outside of dialogue (where it is fine since you are trying to write it how the character is saying it) when writing in formal prose. Acronyms like organisation/country names, dates and such are okay. Though of course are all rather small points of criticism I have for your story. Overall, the good far outweighs the faults: your descriptions are generally good, and the characters are all fine. However, because you are inserting forum members as characters (including yourself), there may be a future risk of creating a Mary Stu, or and author's pet. But since you seem like a good writer, I will give the benefit of a doubt that you can avoid such a situation. I hope to see more of this in the future.

Would you like to see some REAL feedback, which I got when I realised the very first draft of my prologue a long while back. By the way, I'm report that post for flaming me, and the other one for openly insulting me, it is only fair after all. Not being a native English speaker, I am unsure whether there is a grammatical error here or not; anyway, I would phrase this like "darkened clouds began to hover over the valley where he stood watching the bottom with his azure eyes" rather than where he was standing, because the former alternative shows a more direct link between the two sentences. Should this be capitalised? A very complex run-on sentence like this ends in confusion if not handled properly. I would word it this way: "... before diverting his eyes to the large bundle Morgan was carrying around in his arms. He had wrapped it in his red cloak." Splitting a sentence is sometimes better than coordinating them. Two things. First off, it should be with feigned curiosity. Second, it does not make sense; not at least in the light of the subsequent paragraph. This is probably due to you changing the wording or something like that, so it's no big deal. Ungentlemanlike or not gentlemanlike. There are never more than three (...) dots in an ellipsis. You'll have to decide: present or past tense. I do not recommend to start off paragraphs with impersonal sentences; it is seen as clumsy. A better way (IMHO) to phrase it would be "A voice called out: all men to their posts" or something like that. Given the massive length of the story as well as my general laziness, I won't continue to comment individual parts of your text as such from here and on. I did this is order to address what I see as the most common recurrent errors. I was very thankful to get this kind of criticism instead of a few sad "omg it's great!" comments. So I know what getting feedback feels like, and how grateful I should be to those that helped me get better.

A part of me cannot help but feel that this i mostly out of some petty spite. But either way, I will play. Tsk tsk, the least you could have done against me was to try and get a moral high ground. Ever heard of "two wrongs don't make a right"? You do not have to use the characters name constantly, you should be able to clearly see who it is referring too. Here is an example. Now, because I started a new paragraph for the second line of dialogue, it indicates that another person is speaking. It is easy to tell who the first person is speaking to since he addresses him, and therefore you should realise instantly that the character he is speaking to is the one responding. If it was otherwise, I would have stated who it was that was responding by using the name to indicate that a new character had entered the conversation. The whole point of subjective pronouns like "he" is so that you do not have to needless like write their name all the time. That "Haha" pretty much summarises your ill intentions.

In no particular order: - Within Temptation. - Nightwish. - Thousand Foot Krutch. - Rammstein - Disturbed. - Flow. - Michael Jackson. - Weird Al Yankovic.

The first five chapter of TSOT totals to more than 29000 words so far. Each Chapter being larger than 5,500 words each.

Chapter Five: The “Promised” Land. The King Dmitri Vincent was sat in an edgy state atop his throne in dark and empty room, with only a faint afternoon light from the windows making anything visible. At the other end of the room, a tall double door opened, shining a stronger light into the room. His younger brother, Varon had entered, closing the door behind him and shutting out the peeking light. “You wished to speak with me Your Majesty?” Varon seemed concerned about the surroundings. “That's right, there is an urgent problem. Yenallesa has gone missing,” he brooded. Varon took a moment to grasp the situation. “When?” “She did not return last night.” Varon thought back to the guard from that morning. He was unable to find out who had been responsible for the incident. “I do not wish for this news to spread among the people, thus I charge you with finding her.” “I shall do all I can, but I must ask if you know of any leads.” “Markus, he's responsible for this.” Varon was both shocked and puzzled. “That would be low... too low for him even.” “He confessed it to me. He claimed he had revenge against me. His behaviour here has proven his motivation.” “If what you say is true, then there's every possibility that he did this...” “And we must hurry, for Markus has already left the city, taking the majority of the Searans with him.” “Then there is no time to waste, I will find him... and if he is guilty of this crime, his reward is death,” said Varon. He made he way to the exit, concluding their talk; or so the king thought. Varon turned around to speak once more. “Might I ask you one question? As brothers.” “You may.” “What do you wish for Searan? Or perhaps more importantly, what will you do with them?” Varon asked. Dmitri did not expect such a question from him, but was calm with his answer. “Brother, war is a terrible thing, a thing that should be avoided. If we were to contend with Garollen, where would those battles take place?” Varon took moment to consider the question. “And, who would be in the middle of those battles? Those innocents whom are trapped in Searan. Even if, by some miracle, we could match the Houses of Garollen, we would succeed only in disrupting the balance of power. The fate of Estiba would rest in the palm of Pedrotwae, the future is something that Turpustasha cannot be trusted with. We strife to solve this problem whatever way we can, but force will not succeed.” “I understand that brother, but something else needs questioning. The plots which supposedly doomed Searan, do you believe these to be true?” “I wish they are not, but I have no choice other than to investigate them.” “I understand, forgive me. I shall take my leave now.” Varon did so, leaving the throne room, closing the door behind him. Once outside the room he heard quiet footprints that seemed to come from nowhere. “I assume you heard that,” he called. A woman came out of the shadows, wearing a maid dress. Her hair was blond, kept in a bun. Her eyes were a dark blue, and her entire body appeared stiff and cold, her lips barely moved apart when she spoke. “Yes My Lord,” she bowed, and presented a message on a slip of paper. Varon took it off her and glanced over it. “It is a message from Sir Kalegar saying that he is aware for Her Highness' disappearance and has gone to search for her alone.” “Thank you, Annabel. It's a shame he could not have waited, but another searcher is another searcher.” “Transport and supplies have already been arranged for you My Lord. Though I am unsure of how long they will last you, your destination is unclear, correct My Lord?” Varon took a while and pondered the conundrum. “Hmm... Perhaps not. I have a hunch on where Markus may be heading.” “In that case, do you wish for me to return to the Levweld manor, My Lord?” “No, I may require your assistant to this journey,” he said. She spoke nothing more, and they both moved on down the main hall, with guards saluting Varon has he past them. ~ Out on the snow topped hills, Markus and his newly enlarged convoy travelled onwards to the east. With him were twenty of the thirty Searans that had escaped the initial invasion, carrying only the basic supplies of bread and water. Markus kept watch of them from the top of the nearest hill, Dyarl approached him, pleased to see that his friend was looking much happier than before. “Ha, am I crazy or is that a smile I see today?” Dyarl beamed. Markus looked back at him, irritated by his joking as usual. “Uh, I guess. It's nice view from up here.” He pointed north, where there were a pair of hill side by side in the distance, surrounded by pine trees all covered with snow that sparkled under the red sun. Dyarl looked at it, somewhat impressed, but for questionable reasons. “Jeez, I didn't know you enjoyed staring at a nice 'pair of hills' that much.” “That's a laugh coming from the guy who can't stop eyeing someone's wife,” Markus grinned. Dyarl stumbled, embrassed by the sudden attack. “I... I, what?” Markus laughed at the turnaround of torment. “I was just joking.” “Well no wonder I was shocked, since when could you joke?” Dyarl took a breather to regain composure. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you a question. Why is it you choose to lead us to Jistine? For didn't you always label them as treacherous backstabber's? Have you really changed your view of-” “Don't speak such crap! The Jistine counsel are a vile, always thinking themselves as my fathers better. Their contempt for us is sick.” he spat, trying to remove the wretched taste that speaking of them left in his mouth. “But they, and the others of Jistine are Searans at heart, and if they have any decency left, they would surely not turn these people away.” Dyarl nodded. “But why is it you are moving them? They were safe in Vinceles, and if they are not to be trusted, Prenia or Kameir would be safer places.” “Moving to Jistine will put us right next to Searan, it will be easier to keep an eye on things.” “I see, the closer we are, the easier it will be to strike back.” “And we will, we must. Even if it means we have to play this game of 'democracy'.” They ended their conversation on no particular note, continuing to inspect the men and women that moved by. Markus still wore the white coat which he had found, wearing his silver chest plate underneath and a new spear on his back; with a sharp shining head and a red ribbon on the other end. Dyarl had polished his royal blue armour and had cleaned the blood from his blade. It was a peaceful setting; and in spite of the snow, it was enjoyable. That was until a loud sneeze could be heard echoing from the trees, and a familiar head splitting voice accompanied the disruption. “Ah! I hate hate hate this! Ah... Ah...” there was more sneezing. Markus despaired at the ruins of his day. Out of the woods, the three wayward Northerners had returned to him, cold, hungry and each carrying full sacks. Elissa pointed out to the pair on the hill. “Hey! How about a hand!” Markus turned away and ignored them, though Dyarl was more sympathetic to them. “Say Markus, shouldn't we help them?” “If by that you mean we should get rid of them, then yes.” “Well she did save your life, a little gratitude is in order.” “And she won't say how, it's so annoying. Besides, that other cur's just going to cause trouble.” Though uninvited, the three came up the hill, shivering and sneezing. Shinzou was unusually untalkative, but Mahlo was able to fill in for him. “W-w-w-we got caught in a snow storm last night. W-w-we're lucky to still be alive,” he whimpered. “You're not lucky to be alive, the rest of the world is just unlucky,” said a disappointed Markus. Elissa rolled her eyes, not entertained by witless banter, moved on to put Markus in submission. “How cruel of you. To think you're the same person I found laying in a puddle of blood.” She sighed, watching Markus lose his cool. “Since you're going to be so unfair to us, I guess you don't care about what happened back then. Too bad, the look on her face was priceless,” she laughed at the memory. Markus had snapped like a twig. “What! You could someone like you...! Impossible!” he raged. Everyone around him back away. “Are you trying to tell me, that you, a Northerner could do what I could not?!” Elissa spread her arms. “We'll see. Attack!” The others were baffled, but Markus happily agreed. He took the spear off his back, and aimed it towards her chest. It was a fast strike, but she dodged with the simplest sidestep right. And with a swing of her right leg, she ploughed her foot into his face, knocking him down the hill with his weapon. Markus rolled onto his back, moaning in pain. “Aggh... you whore! Cheating like that!” he cried. She came to him, and offered him a hand getting up with a smug grin. “Do you always blame others things when you lose?” Markus rejected her help, dragging himself of the snow, he did not reply to her question. “Don't worry, you don't have to answer that. But you'll have to one day. Losing can be a good thing you know... We'll be joining for a while longer, you might just learn a thing or two.” Dyarl had not paid attention to their talk, but was annoyed by her treatment of him. He went to aid his friend. “Are you alright?” Markus moaned, covering the bruise on the side of his face. “We really should be getting a move on. If we keep going, we should reach the border in a day or so. Let's just take these people and go.” Shinzou and Mahlo came down, and each thanked them “Aww great, really... ah... ah,” Shinzou sneezed, without covering. Markus jump away. “Thank you,” a timid Mahlo bowed, following in his companions path. Markus was confused and irritated nonetheless. “Hey, I never said you could come,” he moaned. Dyarl headed off as well, trying to avoid his wrath. “Trust me Jason, these Northerners are more trouble than their worth!” Nobody took notice him. “Tsk, they just want to leech off us.” ~ Their trip across the countryside of Bremoe continued unhindered. The lack of crooks, bandits and thieves startled many, it almost seemed perfect. As nightfall came, the snow had melted away and the skies were clear and alight with stars. The convey made a camp of many small tents next too a small forest. The people lined up to receive rations of bread, meat and potatoes. Markus was sat on the grass away from the rest, eating his meagre meal in peace, looking up at the constellations, the Sentinel watched over them that night. He was unwontedly visited by the swampy haired Northerner, who talked with a slice bread in her mouth. “Thanks for lettin' ush um... eat. Howsh your facesh?” She muffled. Markus pouted and turned directly away. Elissa took a bite out of her slice and swallowed it in one chew, and spoke again without her mouth full. “Sorry about that, at least it's not too sore.” Markus looked at the bandaged side of her own face. “I suppose you'd know,” he scoffed. “Aye, I guess I do. Listen, why don't you try and attack me again,” she smiled. Markus was suspicious of her. “Go on! Just thrust your spear at me again. Who knows, you might hit me this time.” She appeared to be genuine in her offer, so Markus got up, and drew his spear yet again for an attack. He focused hard, trying to thrust as fast as he could, at the same location as before. His thrust was much more impressive, straight on course and swift towards her. But still she dodged, this time to the left, and mirroring the earlier attempt, she kicked him in the other side of his face. Markus fell, though less humiliatingly than the last attempt, with both sides of his face red and sore. “Arrgh! You did that again!” “And you fell for it again. That's not good at all.” She sighed. “I wonder if you have any talent at all?” Markus got onto his hands and knees like a dog. “Well keep trying. If you can hit me just once, I'll tell you anything you want.” Markus had gotten up, but left his spear lying on the ground. Elissa had picked up her meal and was walking away, but Markus could not wait for answers. “Why are you doing this?” “Ah ah ah! Remember the deal,” she played. Markus was infuriated by her nerve; to mock and beat someone of royalty, people like her really did lack manners and even moral. He tried to eat the rest of his supper, but his sore red cheeks stung him with even the simplest movements. ~ The next morning was pleasantly mild, and the sky was clear, the convey journeyed on. By the afternoon they had reached the east border, and on the hills they could see the famous South Coast in the far distance. The land was characterised by tall rocky cliffs, pure golden sands and a cold, rough sea. It made Markus ill inside to have to come here, but he was sure it was he only place that was suitable for him to work from. Dyarl was optimistic as usual, brushing his hair with his fingers. “So this is the so called 'Promised Land' formed out of our civil war,” Markus mused, tutting. “We should be able to reach Rephall tomorrow morning if we do not make camp on the way,” said Dyarl. Markus took this as good news with a smirk. “Great! I'm sure these people can keep going a while longer.” Dyarl was concerned by Markus' determination in spite of the others, but it was his suggestion so he thought it would rude to object. He also had other questions on his mind. “Markus, about what happened to you last night,” Dyarl sighed. Markus glared at him, unaware that he saw him back then. “I know I'm the one who keeps insisting that we repay them, but she shouldn't do things like that to you,” he concluded. Markus smirked, enjoying Dyarl regret the idea of letting them stay. “And since we did let them eat with us, they should really watch their manners or go.” “Well, I still need to ask her a few things. Besides, if I can't hit a one-eyed rat, I certainly won't beat Elbenor. The idea of dealing with a Northerner is sick, but with Elbenor, it's matter of worth. Next time, she'll be the one on the floor.” Though Dyarl knew what he meant, he could not help conjuring different images of them. Markus thought back to the swampy haired woman, pondering her motive. “But it does seem odd why that Northerner would want to help me,” Markus pondered. Dyarl was also puzzled by her motives; tolerant as he was, he did not approve of the idea of her mentoring him. “I guess we'll have to watch them, they can be sneaky people sometimes.” Though the weariness of the convoy was surfacing, they continued onwards with haste. ~ Up north, in the conquered land of Searan, east of the city of Antabis, lay a miserable camp of filthy tents that housed the population of the entire city. The camp was surrounded by razor wires and patrolled by footmen of Garollen, while the prisoners held within were feeding upon leftovers and slept, trying to gain the energy to walk. At the entrance of the temporary camp the guards were approached by the man in black armour, Morgan. With his fiery cape flowing and his strange new pet wandering behind. The two men at the gate came to question him, though they were impressed by his appearance. “Might we ask what your business here is Sir?” they asked. Morgan was pleased by their diligence, giving them a warm grin in return. “I've come to speak with the ranking man around here. Some local sources tell me this is where I can find a Lieutenant Nolman. Is this correct?” “I'm afraid we cannot talk about such matters to anyone,” they both pointed for Morgan to leave. Morgan held out a signet ring in the palm of his right hand. The ring depicted the head of bear with the curled horns of a mountain goat in solid gold. It took the breath of the guards away, though Morgan was unsurprised by their reaction. “I know it doesn't mean as much has it used to, but I hope it reassures you good gentlemen.” They looked up at his face with pride. Without any other requests they stood aside, and saluted him by raising their spears in the air. “Thank you, what wonderful soldiers you are,” Morgan's smile widened in praise, before he entered the camp. The two guards stared at his humanoid pet as she went by. Apart from a black cloth that wrapped around her waist and covering her thighs, she was nude. With skin like a ghost, long ebony hair that reached all down her back and curled at the end, nippless breasts and golden eyes. She was oblivious to the stares she earned from the other guards. Morgan went towards a much larger, sturdier tent flanked by yet more guards. By the time he had reached the entrance to the tent, the red haired lieutenant came out to meet him. Nolman was curious; the figure that greeted him was familiar, yet he could not remember who it was. Morgan struck the first blow in their talk. “It is a pleasure to meet you Sir Nolman,” he extended his gauntlet to shake hands, but was denied. “Who allowed you here, and what do you wish to waste my time with?” Nolman snarled. Morgan was unscathed by his rudeness. “Your men let me in, and I wish to give you a small complaint.” Nolman's curiosity waned, and he ignored Morgan. He walked past, though he was continually hounded. “You see, I couldn't help notice that you placed these civilians in this nasty little place, barely kept alive.” Nolman still ignored him, and Morgan still persisted. “Handling prisoners of war in such manner is against Garollen's code. His Majesty Macen Garenr would be most displeased if he knew of this,” he nagged. Nolman turned to retaliate, with a face of anger. “And who are you to interfere?” he yelled. Morgan stroked his bearded chin and introduced himself. “I am Morgan Helgrane.” The men straightened their posture and saluted, the prisoners in the camp perked their dirty faces to the scene, for Helgrane was a name well known in Garollen and of all civilised lands of Cera. Nolman was enraged, and did not submit to his name, finding the reaction of his men gut wrenching. “Your all pathetic! Don't you remember? Helgrane is the fallen House, a disgrace!” he turned his fury upon Morgan. “Your just an old hypocrite. Who amongst the five Houses spoke most highly of honour and chivalry, but threw it all away so that he could wed some commoner?” Morgan still smiled, though more subtly. “I did throw away my position as House Lord, I tore down the lineage of my entire family, and I cut my loyalty to the Garollen Empire. All this, for her.” His face expressed no regrets as he spoke. “But I did not lose everything. I kept my honour, because I loved her.” Morgan had gotten more serious, gripping a large polished lance. “You however, have abandoned yours. But, if you release these people to their homes, you can still save face.” Nolman drew his sword with both hands and adopted an aggressive stance, he would not obey the commands of such a man. “Those views you and His Majesty embody are old and decaying. Now are the days where greatness is measured only by success,” Nolman boasted. Though Morgan still had his spear in grip, he had no intention to fight. “Now this isn't good, would you reconsider? The punishment for war crimes, is death.” “The only life that will be lost here is yours, you old has-been.” “Come now. You don't want to make this mistake. I am a forgiving man.” But his words were in vain, Nolman was confident in his victory. “Enough, time to end this. You'll be pushing daisies like that bitch of yours,” Nolman taunted. Morgan still appeared to be calm and cheerful, but now he drew is weapon, blocking Nolman's charge. With a single push, he threw Nolman back a considerable distance. Both were knocked off balance. Once they regained stance, they clashed once more. Morgan was on the offensive, though Nolman competently parried his attacks. A crowd had gathered around them, but no one interfered with the battle or spoke out against it. After many blows were dealt hitting only their weapons, they stepped back for a short rest, but Morgan had yet to use the ace up his sleeve. He positioned his spear horizontally in front of him, and ran his left hand up the pole and tapping the blade once he had reached the end. The spear burst in the flames, and vanished into the air. He then took a stance as though he was about to thrust an invisible spear. Nolman was clueless, but wasted no more time in charging. Hoping to strike the final blow. But before he could swing his blade, a giant lance of flame rocketed from above Morgan and engulfed him. He was swallowed whole. He screamed in agony as the fires burnt his flesh and and raced through his entire body. The fires shrank in a whirlwind, reforming into the spear that was piecing the ash body that was once a man. The other end appeared his the right hand of Morgan. “A shame... I'd hoped you would have lost sooner.” He broke his spear free, smashing the charred remains to pieces. Everyone was speechless over his victory, apart from his pet who franticly clapped her hands and laughed like a small girl. Morgan's demeanour was unchanged, still smiling he called out the frozen guards. “I trust that you will not make the same mistake as he did. Take these people back to where they came from. And if you see lil' Elbenor, tell her she'll need a replacement for Mister Nolman.” A flicker of despair came of the men at the thought of having to tell her about this incident. Morgan turned his attention back to the odd woman, who had returned to her docile self. “A big shame about him, sad part is that he was right. Now are the days of desperation, men clawing at each others flesh, surrendering all else for even the smallest victory.” She clapped and laughed again. “Oh? Does that sound fun?” he chuckled. “Well come deary, passing through here was nice, but I've still got to solve your riddle.” He made for the exit acting as if nothing had happened, his pet followed him as if she was leashed. The prisoners rose in cheer has they was being prepared to leave, marvelling at the phenomenon they had witnessed. ~ It was a warm evening and the sun set into the centre of the valley where three children played. Two girls, one in a green dress and long blonde hair, the other had her red hair held back in a thick pony tail and wore a snow white dress. The finally child was a boy with copper hair and a black vest. They chased one another through the tall grass, laughing and playing. They rested in the shade of a large oak tree, the grass they laid on was soft and dry. “Markus,” the blonde girl laughed out. The boy was too tired to answer. “Markus!” “Hey Markus!” Dyarl whacked him on the back of the head, snapping him out of his daydreaming. Markus comforted yet another bruise, gnashing his his teeth. “Sorry, you weren't paying attention.” “Oh? It was just a bad memory. What did you want to talk about?” “Well, the people are getting tired, I doubt they could go on for much longer without a break,” explained Dyarl. “Is that all? They will just have to keep going,” Markus sighed. “Their not soldiers Markus, we shouldn't push them like that. We have to stop for them.” “Fine fine! Jeez, I thought I could rely on my own people at the least.” Dyarl thanked him, but was secretly irritated by Markus' insensitivity. He turned around to the convey of weary men and women and raised his voice for attention. “We shall be setting camp soon to rest!” The crowd chattered in relief and praised him. The people loved Sir Dyarl, to them he was the friendly face of Searan, strong, kind, young and handsome, and though he tried to be modest about it, he enjoyed their opinion of him. “By those fields over there,” he pointed to a flat stretch of land in the near distance. “They will do nicely!” Markus pulled a disdainful face away from them, he knew how much Dyarl enjoyed their thanks. It was late evening by the time they had set up their next camp and a half moon sat above them this time. Markus sat in the company of Gerald and Henrietta for supper, stiff bread and tangy water. Henrietta was reading another book, a smaller black one which was titled in gold “Brief History of Avikier.” Markus raised an eyebrow at a seemingly random book. “Why are you reading... that?” He did not care much, but it would take his mind off his foul meal. “Oh? I'm a lover of Rineran history, it's just a hobby of mine. I'm an Honorary Avikier Vanguard you know.” As much as he wanted to, Markus could not raise his brow any higher. “Don't you have to a warrior to join them?” Markus wondered. “Well, I'm no warrior, but I helped them with a few things a couple years back,” she giggled, trying to keep a hold of the book that fell to the ground. Markus sighed in the face of her cheerfulness. “Well... those women aren't so great, I mean they did get beaten by Pedrotwae pretty badly from what I've read.” A foot slammed into the back of his head, causing him to fall forwards and spill water in his face. Elissa looked down on him with a vein on her forehead. “You want to have another go... or are just going to stab me with those words?” Markus did not respond. In blind rage he picked up the spear that sat next to him and attacked without delay. It was a swift thrust, and Elissa had to jump back to avoid it. She leaped towards him as he prepared his next attack, she spun and kicked him in his chest, sending him across a few meters before he fell into the mud. “Enough of this!” Dyarl stepped in between them and drew his sword. He was unusually angry. “Miss Elissa, do you know nothing of manners?” She shrugged. “Here is a lesson; guests should treat their hosts with respect.” Elissa showed no interest in his words, she had no intention of ending Markus' humiliating training. “I will not allow you to treat my Lord in such a way, especially in front of his own people. Stop or you will be made to leave,” he pointed his blade in her direction. She took no notice of his threat, but did ponder on the issue of Markus' status. “Oh... um, I'm... sorry,” she said. Dyarl was disappointed by her lax apology, but accepted it nonetheless. Markus had gotten up from the ground. He was ashamed with himself for being beaten yet again, but was not as distressed by her actions as Dyarl had been, it was a necessary thing that he had to put up with. The peasants watched and gossiped among themselves, shocked at the easy defeat of their new leader. ~ When all others had gone to sleep that night, Markus stayed awake, keeping watch over the camp with bored eyes. A shadowy figure came to him, it was Dyarl dressed in a white cotton shirt and brown trousers, he held his sheathed sword in his hand. Markus turned around to find him. “Oh... Jason?” he said. Dyarl's face was stern like stone. “If it is about tonight, I do not wish to be disgraced, but if that woman holds the answer to my victory I must reach for it.” “I understand that, and yet... these people are missing someone, the one who gives them hope.” “Hope is hard to find, these are dark times,” Markus responded. A voice whispered into his ear. “Fear not this, darker is yet to come.” Markus felt a shiver, but seemed deaf to those words. Dyarl had not been spoken to by this presents, grabbing his sword with both hands. “Their King, Markus, they need him,” he stated. Markus sighed, Dyarl's answer seemed almost obvious. “But my father is not here.” “In body no, but in spirit,” he drew his blade from it's sheath and held it to the sky. “Markus, for the sake of our people, you must take your place.” Markus' eye glared in wonder, the idea was madness to him. He could not take he throne of his father, knowing that he may still be alive. But Dyarl stood in salute, utterly confident of his friend. The moment of his thought was long and silent until at last Markus placed his right hand upon his heart, and reluctantly took an oath. “Uh... In glory and in ruin... for her people and land,” he closed his eye, and took deep breath, “...I shall be just, strong and wise... I take the mantle of the King, as Markus Horuston the Second, heir of Searan.” Dyarl smiled and whispered glorious praise. “Hail His Majesty! Long live the King.” He. withdrew his sword and knelt. “Isn't this a tad... hollow? Saying a few words in front of one person doesn't really give me the crown.” Dyarl stood up and chuckled. “I know, and it doesn't. I just needed to know if you would do it. Tomorrow we'll announce our plan to the others.” Markus was still full of uncertainty, he felt that the others would not accept him at these times. “Don't worry Your Majesty, with the right leader, even miracles can happen.” “And I'm this leader?” Markus thought his ramblings were foolish at best. “Well it is your destiny. And besides, Lirina and I are here to help you, a great leader should have great subordinates.” Dyarl seemed almost too sure of his plans, though it were a game. Markus sighed, he had lost control of the conversation, some king he thought. “Lets just... deal with this in the morning.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” ~ Markus was restless when he went to bed that night. “That's not fair!” A boys voice protested, the rest of his words were muffled. “It isn't! It should be me.” It ran through his mind, he could not drown it out. “Markus!” a voice cried. He leaped out of bed with fright, gasping for relief and sweating with terror. Dyarl had his head poking into the tent, calling to him. “What!? What is it!?” he clenched his jaw tight. “We've got a problem, come quickly!”Markus came out, though he wore nothing but gray night clothes. Over the mountainous hills in the distance, a ghastly cloud smoke rose, blowing in their direction. The people watching despaired, Lirina in particular was concerned about the event. She rushed to Markus and Dyarl “It's coming from Rephall. If something has happened... they might refuse us,” she said. Dyarl shared in her fears, but resolved to keep going. “Then we just have to hurry up and see what's happening, right Your... Markus?” Lirina gave them a suspecting look. “Yeah... defiantly.” He caught a glimpse of his mother's face before she turned away. “Mother, is something wrong?” “No dear, I was just... imagining things,” her response was unconvincing, but they did not have the time to ask her about it. “Mother, please may you stay here and keep the people in order while we're gone?” “Of course dear,” she turned back to with a gave him a faint smile. “Please be careful dear.” They left her, unknowing of her feelings. Markus had gone back to his tent to prepare while Dyarl gathered what supplies they needed into a small sack. He soon found himself being approached by the strange woman from the north, whom he still possessed ill feelings for. However, he maintained his polite voice in her presents. “Miss Elissa, is there something you wish to speak to me about?” Though she could see the displeasure in his eyes it mattered not to her, it was something she was used to. “I see that you two are leaving for danger.” “It is just a fire, but that place has much importance in these lands.” “I'm coming with you.” A shock Dyarl began to protest against her plans with calm words. “There is no reason for it. Having you with us might... confuse them, besides...” Before he could finish, Markus expressed his own ideas. “Jason, let her come.” Dyarl's cool had been shattered, he looked back at him with a lost expression. “Markus, that's not like you... she's a Northerner.” “Maybe so, but I'm not letting her out of my sight either way.” Dyarl still hopelessly gazed at him, disbelieving his friends wishes. “There'll be no argument over it Jason! Now lets go!” Dyarl needed a moment to absorb the commands. “Yes... Markus.” He was pained to see the man who would be King fall so far down, but Markus' word was his law now. He obeyed him, and followed in his lead to the source of the cloud. Lirina watched the three leave in hurry, her red dress flowed in the tainted wind. Her face was cold and sad, she could not believe the words she had almost heard. The thick black smoke now rolled over the hills, a fearsome sight for the people whom were in the dark. “Why isn't he hearing me...”

The story is not the only thing that is important. How you present it matters just as much, having a great plot and characters is pointless if your writing style cannot present it well. Don't take that as an attack on your work, I'm just correcting that quote. Style and technique matter, otherwise the story would be boring to read.

I was referring to his general posting habits. And is swearing at me really the best counter you can come up with?

Uh... Why not try contributing a bit more in your posts instead of the usual crap you say. Honestly, how can you be tolerated? On topic: We have separate topics for Stories and Reviews in the Fictional Works section on Fire Emblem Anthology. Though I think the idea of separate threads is good idea in more serious, mature writing section, but I doubt you would benefit that much, since I rarely see any kind of proper reviews or criticisms, or anything that could be deemed as a decent comment for that matter. P.S: I am aware I'm pretty much asking for the Ban Hammer with my posts, which is ironic.

Firstly, you're giving off a very bad impression of this forum telling someone to shut up because their new, especially when they post something that has bit for thought put into it than most of the spam comments here. Secondly, shutting up on a forum would be really counter productive, and since asking that question broke no rules at all I retain the right to post it. Thirdly, my perfectly reasonable and genuine question certainly has more value than "Shut up, Script pwns (Lulz i suk at speling)" so if someone were to shut up, you would be the best candidate to do so.

Can people just let Dragonball die? It's a lame series, and this film makes me cry on the inside. Stop milking a sour cow damn it.

The problem with the Script format is the strong lack of verbs and descriptions which are needed to create a better image in the readers mind. I'll give you an example from your own work. Firstly, though you state the setting, it does not set any atmosphere, and just lacks a lot of needed details like the conditions, time of day etc. Secondly, because of the lack of verbs, it is hard to tell what the character's tones are. How are they saying these lines? There is no good indication of how angry, worried or irritated Masu is when he says his lines.

99.99% is a huge exaggeration. I've seen quite a few stories written in prose narrative on the first page, all of which look a lot more appealing to my eyes than a script. A few examples not including my own work of course. http://serenesforest.net/forums/index.php?...t=0&start=0 http://serenesforest.net/forums/index.php?...t=0&start=0 http://serenesforest.net/forums/index.php?showtopic=4614

I'll have to see for myself. But unless these two people are playwrights I am skeptical. No intended offence.

I know this is a corny thing to say, but Masu and Lyle jumped of a cliff would you follow? So you have no intention of improving? I guess we just have different standards. Is that meant to be some form of attack on my right to criticise you? I do believe it is obvious to see who I am from my username and such other information in my profile.

I do not wish to be offensive however; is there a reason why this is written as a script and not in prose? Sorry, but script formats are a very bad way to write a story. You see, scripts are not written to be read by the audience, but for the actors in a play/film/etc, the audience get most out of it by seeing it being performed, just reading the script is boring and lack vital descriptions (Which I see little to none of in this story) which the audience would get by seeing it on stage. Just wondering if there is a reason for this?

I've not managed to read through all of this, but I will make a comment or two. Keep in mind that I'm not really that good at criticisms; - Firstly, it is a good idea to avoid using the word "said" as much as possible, it is just a crappy word that gives no indication of tone or motivation. Using it repeatedly makes reading it a bit repetitive. I do see you using some other words to replace it later on which is good, the more you can get rid of "said" the better. - In the first part, I noticed some uneeded commas, for example "...a bunch of roses, and violets..." and "...the flowers died, along with the green grass..." The commas there are not needed. - It is better to describe the appearance of a character when they are first introduced, with Wynn, we get most of the first part without knowing what she looks like, or any hints of personality. That said, I did like, or can see potential in this; - I like the setting idea with the Seasonal Planets. - I liked seeing some history/background being added to set up the situation. - Some interesting, but light-hearted action early on in part three. I hope that this can help you. I wish you good luck. I will try and read somemore tomorrow and hopefully give a few more comments.

Chapter Four: The Saint's Shadow. It was a frosty morning, and the sky was empty of all but a red sun. Five black An-wyrms circled Markus and his troop, who were fleeing south in desperation. Markus stared up at them, clutching the wound he received the other day. “I though you had a plan!” “This is the plan, trust me Sir. We can fight a few riders off can't we?” Markus rolled his eyes, and continued running at full pace. The An-wyrms flapped their wings and raced ahead of the prey, landing only a few metres in front. Shinzou had already drawn his sword: a long rectangular piece of metal on a stick. The middle rider approached to address them. “Drop your weapons and surrender, you runaways can still live.” Though it was pointless, Shinzou's mouth already ran too far. “Bluff all ye want ridin' on that beast. Come down and lets see ye fight,” his tongue pierced the rider, and shattered hope for a peaceful resolution. “Advance on them, leave none alive.” Weapons were drawn all around, and the bulky beasts snapped their jaws and stepped forwards. A riders from each end leaped forwards, landing just short of a foot away from Shinzou, intimidating him with their sharp fangs, though he was still steadfast and ready to battle. The pair drew their lances, and their steeds backed onto their hind legs. Shinzou tightened his focus, seemingly unbothered by the lack of help he was receiving from the other fighters of the group, who chose to standby and judge him. The riders were moments away from striking, when a raised voice caught their attention. Fly away with the winds. Eighteen: Gale. Mahlo withdrew his right hand towards his chest, and thrust it straight out at the pair of riders. A strong gust of wind picked up upon their location, forcing them back. They finally collapsed, knocking into one another, crashing on the ground, nearly crushing both men. Shinzou, stepping carefully over the An-wyrm tails, approached the fallen men, grabbing them by the collar. With his rusty blade, he slit their throats, making sure a good amount of blood poured from their veins. The lead rider watched the battle, unamused. “Bah, so one of them buggers knows a trick or two. Alright, don't waste time men, kill them skinny brats.” The remaining three flew up and made another circle around them, before landing in positions as to surround the group. Markus and Dyarl now drew their weapons for the next assault, and Gerald balled his fists and taunted the foe with mock punches. Though only the two women had noticed another group approaching from behind the lead rider. A ball of fire flew from behind, missing the center rider and scorching the ground before him. The shocked rider turned and faced his new foe. A tall man, with strong sapphire eyes, faded blue hair with a long lock covering the right side of his face, and a frilly downwards ponytail. Wearing a long white robe around his crimson shirt. He walked towards the riders with confidence, followed by a team of eleven archers. “My my, killing nobility on foreign land... such crimes are rather punishable in these times. Fortunately however, I am here to make sure no such act is committed,” he said. The riders turned their attention to the strangely joyful man, the captain pulled a disgusted face. “Pfft, and you are?” asked the lead rider. The man placed his right hand upon his chest, and bowed. “Oh course, allow me to introduce myself. I am Varon L. Vincent, Duke of Kontershore.” The captain clenched his jaw, withdrawing his weapon. “Curses... blast, why did you have to show up?” “These lands are within our borders, and His Holy Majesty had stationed men to assist those fleeing from Searan, which is being overseen by myself. And for these reasons, I must ask you to leave, or else my men will open fire.” The remaining three riders were angered, but did not argue further, leaving the land in humiliation. Varon came up to Markus, and bowed in front of him, though Markus was unimpressed. “It is good to see you alive and well, Lord Horuston. And of course, same to you, Sir Dyarl.” “More like an unexpected problem... right?” Markus scowled. Varon looked at him, confused, though he did not have time to respond. “I know what that brother of yours is up to.” “Lord Horuston, His Holy Majesty is greatly sorry for your loss; but we cannot be hasty on this matter. We bid you to come to Vinceles to speak in his presents.” Markus looked away, ignoring the first part of his speech. “We have transport waiting not far, if you and your group would like to accompany me.” Markus still did not speak. “I see, and I understand why you don't wish to speak. But I should tell you, that the Lady Lirina arrived in Vinceles a few days ago,” he finally grabbed his attention at the mention of his mother, “and dear Yenallesa has been praying non-stop for you.” “Fine, I'll come,” answered Markus. Their talk was rudely interrupted by Shinzou, whom took no interesting in their conversation, or Markus' identity. “Great, I was getting' tired of all that walking!” Varon turned to him, frowning with contempt. “I'm so sorry, but we do not allow your kind within our home.” “Eh? What gives?” “Nothing gives, we simply like to keep our home clean and civilised,” Varon stated. Dyarl had now entered, in defence of the Northerners. “Forgive me Lord Vincent, but in return for their assistance, no matter how little it was, I told them they would be able to conduct some business here in Bremoe. And as a Knight, I must be true to my word.” Varon was dumbfounded by the idea of a knight dealing with Northerners. “Sir Dyarl... I wish you hadn't. But, it would be wrong of me to oppose your promise; though I trust you to keep a close eye on them.” “Of course Lord Vincent.” “...Oh, on second thought, those three must sit on the roof of the second carriage,” Varon added. Shinzou cheered over this arrangement, giving Varon a sharp glare when his back was turned. They then headed towards their ride, three black carriages each being pulled by a pair of horses. Varon turned to give orders to his men. “I shall be leaving now. Head back to the camp and continue your work.” “Yes, My Lord!” they marched off into the distance. Varon invited Markus and Dyarl into the first of the carriages. Markus reluctantly accepted, suspecting that Varon just wanted to keep watch on him. Gerald and Henrietta shared the third carriage to themselves. Though the last carriage was empty, the Northerners were still made to sit on top of it. Varon signalled the drivers, and then they began to ride, taking a long dirt road route to the capital. ~ Henrietta kept herself busy with a large, red covered book entitled The Biography of Piyate Turpustasha: Part Two. It was warm inside the carriage, so she had removed her white fur coat; wearing just a flowery apricot dress. Gerald rested his chin in his hand, staring outside the window at the landscape. It was made up of rolling hills and a large, sparkling lake near the horizon, surrounded by towering pine trees. He turned to his wife, who was too lost in her book to notice. “Say, where do ye think we'll go once; I mean, they don't need us around.” There was a short pause before she replied. “Eh... oh, I'm sure they wouldn't just leave us,” she pondered. Gerald caught a glimpse of the book cover. “You shouldn't read books like that dear.” “Oh? But it's such a rare book and-” “And what about that box?” he pointed to a small violet box, which had been hidden in her coat. It had a bronze lock on it's longest side. Gerald looked down at her with a raised eyebrow. Henrietta stammered when she tried to explain. “Erm... well... I though that... you know, I couldn't leave it.” “I think you should let me keep a hold of it.” “Oh... of course, just... please don't get rid of it,” she begged. Gerald smiled and reassured her, taking the box from her coat and placing it under his right arm. The sound of banging could be heard from outside. When they inspected it through their window, they found the three Northerners climbing down from the moving carriage. “Aye, what a bunch of troublemakers,” Gerald chuckled. Varon and Dyarl had yet to notice their escape; but Markus had spotted them out of the corner of his eye. Though he was more than happy to be rid of them. Despite not wanting to be caught, Shinzou could not help but be loud. “Hey Elissa should we-” he shouted. “Quiet. You want them to see us?” Elissa sighed. He covered his mouth, and looked at the carrage which Varon rode in. They ran toward the lake in the distance with Mahlo trailing behind. Dyarl, stilling not realising their disappearance, wanted to cure his boredom during the ride by playing his usual game. “So Markus, I didn't know you were in acquaintance with little Yeny-” “Oh shut it; I've not seen her in ten years. I'm surprised she'd remember me.” “Don't be like that. She must like you if she's putting her little hands together to pray for you.” “Quit it! She was five when I met her.” “Now that's big problem; or does old Markus like them young,” Dyarl prodded. Markus' cheeks glowed red, and he readied to place his hand around his neck and throttle him. Varon glared at them. Barely tolerating their conversation he coughed, alerting them to his existence. “Oh... forgive me Lord Vincent; we were just joking around,” Dyarl grinned. Varon took a deep breath, and was able to clear his thoughts before speaking. “I'll graciously forgive your felony, pray Etustir forgives you as well.” Dyarl was stunned by the sudden hostilities, though Markus simply rolled his eyes. “That includes you Lord Horuston. Blushing at the name our Royal Princess, disgraceful,” Varon finished. Markus paid no attention, preferring to continue staring outside. The result of their talking had cause the ride to become increasingly uncomfortable. ~ Late afternoon came many hours later, and over the hills, they could make out the silhouette of a city consisting of thousands of buildings, a city that dwarfed anything that could be found in Searan. They came through the white towers that formed the entrance, and rode over the level stone road. The buildings that surrounded them were all coloured in a fresh white and cleaned to perfection. Dyarl looked at each one, unable to find any fault. “This sure looks like a nice place.” “Of course, Vinceles has been head of the Etustir church for centuries, and the birthplace of Seres Vinceles. We must constantly be a shining example,” Varon smirked. Dyarl stuck his head out of the window, getting a view of the grand temple which sat on the far end of the main road, towering far above the rest of the sky line, seeming to almost touch the clouds. They took a right turn before the temple, heading towards another large building, a palace consisting of three large buildings with domed roofs, surrounded by a small forest and a tall, white barred fence. Once they reached the guarded gates, the carriages stopped, greeted by five men in silver armour. Varon opened the door, allowing his guests to exit first. Dyarl soon realised that the Northerners had disappeared, though it did not seem to bother him, though Varon was fuming when he saw that they were missing. “Where are they!?” he shouted. “What's so bad, you don't like them, and now their gone. It's a good thing,” said Markus, scratching his head. “loose rats are never a good thing, who knows what they'll do.” “With enough luck, they won't be doing anything that bothers me. Don't we have something more important to do?” “Of course, we shall enter, His Majesty's guard will welcome us.” Varon looked towards the final carriage where Gerald and Henrietta were exiting. “And your other guests are welcome to stay, I shall have men escort them to rooms later.” He continued to lead them into the main building. Henrietta ran up to Dyarl, waving her arms for attention. “Sir Dyarl, Sir Dyarl!” she cried. He turned and smiled at her. “I don't wish to bother you, but you and Markus... you're-” “Former General Jason Dyarl, and Prince Markus Horuston the second.” “Goodness! It's such an honour, why didn't you say? So sorry for not recognising you, I've not lived in Searan long...” “Please don't worry.” Dyarl interrupted. Henrietta turned back to Gerald, who was wearing a brown jacket and raggy trousers; still carrying the box under his arm. “Oh... you can't enter looking like that!” she squealed. Dyarl laughed, causing her to blush. The group enter the building through a large door with pillars at both sides. The interior was soft and bright, white marble floors and two rows of parallel smooth stone pillars ran down the central corridor. Gerald and Henrietta had their faces fixed on the concave ceiling, admiring the curved line patterns. Markus was not so impressed, feeling that the palace was too big, nor was the brightness and hight homely. Varon stopped, and turned to address the group, as well as four guards who stood behind them. “May I gladly welcome you all to The Avitasin Palace. Shortly, these men will take you to the guest rooms. Lord Horuston and Sir Dyarl, your meeting with His Majesty will occur tomorrow at noon. All four of you are welcome to eat in the presents of His Majesty tonight, I recommend that you prepare if you wish to attend,” Varon explained. Markus cared not for the welcome, or the schedule. “You know there's only one reason why I came here. My mother, where is she?” he asked. Before Varon could answer his question he was interrupted by a soft voice that echoed a welcome to him. “Uncle! Uncle!” She was a young girl with long blue hair with a thick fringe and wide sapphire eyes. She wore a long red dress surrounded thick rose cloak, she was short in stature, and flat chested. Varon smiled and bowed his head to her. “Your Highness, don't tell me you've missed me that much?” She franticly nodded her head. She then walked up to Markus, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him tightly. Markus' cheeks turned deep crimson. “P-please Yen... Your Highness, there's no need for this!” But she refused to let go. “I'm happy to see you too, but this isn't-” “That's... good.” She let go of him and stepped back to greet him properly. Markus could see the tears in the corner of her eyes. Before she was able bow, he knelt before her, both of them blushed. Varon was bothered by their behaviour. “Your Highness, don't you have business elsewhere for now?” he said. She looked back to him with confusion. “High Priest Jalinr is waiting for you at the temple.” She was very disappointed at being sent away. “Oh... yes, I can't keep Jalinr waiting. But I can't leave until-” “Not to worry Your Highness,” another person came down the hall. A handsome young man, possessing short blonde hair with a thin pony tail down the left side of his neck. His armour was polished silver, that shone against the background of his violet cape. And round his waist he carried a longsword, with a phoenix emblem on the hilt. Yenallesa was pleased to see him, yet still disappointed by having to leave. “Oh, Rai... Sir Kalegar, forgive me for leaving you behind.” “There's no worries Your Highness. Though we cannot waste anymore time,” he bowed to greet the guests. Markus could not help but be irritated by his smile, the familiar smile of a man that always got his way. Yenallesa spoke to all their guests before leaving. “Bless and be blessed.” She and Kalegar made their exit, Varon followed soon after, requesting the guards to lead the guests on, he still had no answered Markus' question. The guards obeyed their orders. “Please may you follow us now, we shall sort everything out for you.” At the other end of the long hall, the group, lead by two guards took a right turn into a smaller corridor, with wooden decorative doors on both sides. To pass the time, Dyarl tried to speak to his friend who appeared annoyed. “It must've been nice to see her, she seemed nice,” Dyarl thought. Markus did not respond. “And that Ke...Kalegar bloke looked impressive.” “If you like knights in shining armour.” “That's a shame, he kinda reminded me of you,” he looked up, with his smile gone, “well the old you.” Markus looked away. “Hey, cheer up. At least you made it alive to see your mother again.” “I guess, but here, we're not,” he glanced at the guards escorting him, who seemed to be paying close attention to him, “it's nothing.” ~ The escorts stopped, and opened a door. “This will be your room, Lord Horuston. We hope you will enjoy your stay. We shall inform the Lady Lirina of your arrival immediately, please wait here.” Markus did not thank them or respond in any way, other than to walk into the room and shut the door on them. The room itself was large, with the same design as the rest of the building. There was a double bed with a purple blanket that Markus laid upon as soon as the door was shut. A chilling wind blew through the two open windows, blowing the purple curtains; and sending shivers down his spine. He got up from the short lie down. He took off his battered armour and let it fall to the floor, causing loud bangs. He was reaching to close a window, when snow flakes flew into the room; touching his face and dampening his shirt. He stared out from the window, seeing that beyond the city. The pine tree forests were already covered in an enchanted white, though any beauty in it did not strike him. Instead, he felt more depressed, remembering all that had happened. The sounds of battle were still rang like background noises. Nor could keep the cold hatred of Elbenor, out of his mind. He stood at the window for a long while, pondering when a knock on the door came. “I don't want... Come in.” He turned around, not realising that the floor around the windows had become blanketed in snow. The door opened, revealing the guest to be a middle aged woman with neck length greying hair, faded blue eyes and several wrinkles. She wore a red silk gown and big smile. Markus was both overjoyed and nervous, he could not do anything other than bow before his queen. He opened to mouth to greet her, but was interrupted. “You don't need to do that,” Lirina had stopped smiling, seeing the state of Markus. His torn clothes and cuts. “I... I'm so sorry, it was selfish of me to.” Markus sprang to his feet. “Don't say things like that!” he cried. Lirina was shocked by his sudden outburst. “None of it's your fault! I would have made a horrible mistake to not make sure you were well!” A tear came to her eye, seeing her son speak with such certainty. “I'm so joyed to see you... after everything.” “Forgive me mother, I cannot give you any news of father.” “You shouldn't be so hard on yourself dear.” She moved closer to him, putting her arms around him. Markus was eased by her embrace, his thoughts had become clearer. And when she moved back he spoke his mind. “Mother, we have to leave as soon as possible.” “But... His Majesty has been such a wonderful host.” “These people will abandon us. They never had any intention of helping Searan.” “But Markus dear, we've nowhere else to go.” “I... but we cannot stay here.” There was another knock on the door, but this time there was no time for Markus to reply. “Dinner will be ready shorty, His Holy Majesty insists that you attend.” Lirina was concerned for Markus' words, but did not wish to cause any commotion. “Don't not worry dear, these things will we worked out tomorrow. But for tonight you should rest.” “But-” “Dear... you've come all this way to make sure I was well. You care enough to trust me?” he asked. Markus could not say anything, only wiping the dust off his shirt. “And aren't you happy to see Her Highness again? She's a wonderful young woman now.” Markus went rose cheeked at her implications. “Uh... well... Fine, I suppose staying one night would be a good rest,” he agreed. Her smile widened. “That's wonderful, I'll leave you to get ready.” She opened the door and went on her way giving Markus a sweet nod goodbye. ~ He looked around, trying to find any clothes that he could use to replace his own worn outfit. He appeared much more positive than, the burden of his promise was finally lifted. But there was still the concern of his suspicious allies, though for his mother, he would put them aside for the night. He checked the wardrobe, where he found a long formal white coat, the edges and sleeve ends were lined in black and gold. Unfortunately, there was nothing else in the room for him to wear, so he put the coat over his shirt, there was no lapel, nor anyway any buttons to close the coat with, so his worn clothes still showed prominently. He left the room, inspite of his appearance, turning left from his room door, heading back to the main corridor. The building was lit up by rows of candles on the walls, but it was still cold throughout. Once Markus had reached the main corridor, he seeked out the nearest guard. “Excuse me there, you wouldn't mind pointing me to the dinner hall, or any place like that?” The guard inspected him, giving a puzzled stare at his appearance. “Oh... of course, His Holy Majesty must be expecting you Lord Horuston,” he pointed to a corridor that was no far away. “It's at the end, the other guests had already gone down.” The guard bowed and went on his way, with no thanks from Markus, who hurried down to his destination. When he had reached the end, he found a large double door with a floral pattern carved into it. He could hear the sound of laughter within, confirming that he was in the right place. He entered, pulling open both doors, find that everyone was already sat down waiting to eat. At the end of the long, food covered table was King Dmitri Vincent the Fourth, a man of strong presence, an ageing face surrounded by thinning blue hair. He wore a thick red cloak lined with the fur of a snow wolf, with golden vambraces and a royal purple shirt, patterned with rune like symbols. Markus' distrust of him was at a new high, and they stared at each other, seemingly reading their faces. The king made the first move. “Well, come boy, we've all being waiting for you,” he bellowed. Markus followed his seeming friendliness. “Forgive me Your Majesty, I hope I'm not too late.” He looked around for an empty chair, locating it to the right side between Henrietta and his mother. He sat down without any further delay, finding Yenallesa on the opposite side of the table. “Of course not boy. You're here now, so we shall start.” Everyone had started collecting the food for the middle and put it on their plates. Various quality meats, potatoes, vegetables were shifted around constantly, Markus struggled to get his hands of dishes that caught his eye. Markus took several drinks of the wine that had been placed at his seating. Mindless banter filled the room, talk about the gardens, Varon's maid and sailing seemed to dominate the noise. Markus, putting whatever he could get a hold on onto his place, kept one eye one the king, barely noticing his mother nudging and talking to him. Eventually he turned to her, forking some carrots on his plate. “Ah dear, me and Jason were just talking about that time at the Searan festival. You remember, the one where your father slipped off the stand in his speech.” It took a while for his memories to kick in, but he soon smirked at what had happened. “Oh... yeah, he was on his back for the rest of the day,” he sniggered. Dyarl re-entered the conversation. “His Majesty can be such an old coot sometime.” “Jeez Jason, you're going right to the chopping block for saying things like that.” “Well it's the truth.” “Never said it wasn't! The old guy's senile!” Markus laughed. Varon sipped his wine, watching them. He chuckled under his breath and turned to his brother. “Was it such a good idea let him drink? Seems like it's gone right to his head.” “I would have expected him hold his drink better, his father could win contests with his liver.” Markus got up and slammed his hands on the table. “Don't you take about my father like that! If he knew what kind of a backstabbing crook you are!” “Now see here boy...” “No! You see here!” He turned to the rest of the crowed, who glared with wide eyes and dropped jaws. “You want know what your Holy Majesty is going to do? Nothing! He... he's going to let Searan ROT! The hounds were woken by a noise, and you feed Searan to calm them down! Is that it!” There was an awkward silence as Markus awaited an answer. Everyone else was stunned by his uproar, but they did not express any other opinion. Dmitri and Markus stared off at each other, refusing even to blink, Markus had his whole body tensed up, concentrating his fury, where as Dmitri's eyes were filled with apathy. When it came clear the king would not speak, Markus' rage boiled. With one swipe he turned the table into a wreck and stormed out of the room. There was a delayed reaction from Lirina, who rose to follow him, only to have Varon stop her. “It won't do any good. Maybe he'd be better off on his own right now.” She ignored his words and left the table, not noticing any other attempts to stop her. Yenallesa stood up, clasping her hands to address her father. “Father, please may I be excused?” she beamed. He looked at her with suspicion. “And what would be your reason to leave?” “I promised Ja... High Priest Jalinr I would help him at the Temple tonight.” “At this hour? Jalinr wouldn't-” “I volunteered to father. He was desperately looking for someone to help with his special service tonight,” she put on a sweeter voice. “Wouldn't be a wonderful treat for them people if I helped them.” “Very well, but make sure to take Sir Kalegar to escort you.” “Oh yes father. Thank you thank you! Bless and be Blessed!” She gave him a peck on the cheek to reassure him before she went on her way. Dmitri smiled as she left; he then turned to Varon, who was trying to get comfortable in his seat. “Varon, call a guard to keep and an eye on her.” “Yes, Your Majesty,” he did not change expression, leaving the room to do as requested. This left Dyarl and the Humenve's in the presents of the king, awkwardly trying to think of topics to discuss. Dyarl tapped his fingers on the table for a while, before coming up with a random topic. “So... Gerald. How long did you own that inn for?” he asked. Gerald swallowed down his meat in a frenzy. “I was wondering when you'd ask! Well, I've had that place for a few years, not that long actually. It used to belong to an old friend.” “And what did you do before?” “I was sailor, former captain of the Eeswell Hydra. One of the finest ships in the Dalbron navy.” Dyarl was surprised by such an answer. “You don't say... that's really something,” Dyarl was astonished. “Isn't he just wonderful!” Henrietta joined, uninvited. “I guess you're more than meets the eyes... right?” Their conversation continued, turning into trivial directions, but all three being content and distracted, though the king felt out of place while to cutting his roast beef. ~ Outside the gates of the palace, Varon stood with a wine glass in his hand; trying to enjoy what was left to enjoy that night. He took a final sip, before sighting Lirina running to him. “Any luck there, My Lady?” he inquired; his stern visage had softened. She looked to the ground, depressed. “Nothing. Well, I told you,” he invoked a stinging slap from Lirina. “Don't you tell me how to treat my son!” she choked. Varon looked away, covering the red mark on his left cheek. “Forgive me,” he muttered. Lirina returned to her place of sorrow, raising Varon's guilt. “Erm... is there any way I can help you, My Lady?” “N-no thank you. Markus should come to his senses. I was just so... it worries me to see his do things like that.” “I...I think you should get some rest, My Lady.” She looked up at him with watering eyes. “I'll have some men keep an eye out for him.” “Thank you but,” she yawned, “you'll find him... won't you?” “Of course My Lady, you should go now,” he smiled. She was hesitant, but knew she would be unable to find him at this time of night. Once she had left for the palace, Varon turned his attention to the two men at the gates. “As you may or may not have heard, I have a task for you two. There will be three hundred Orihal for you each, if you can find Markus Horuston and inform him of his mother worry.” They gave the same stiff response before going to perform the task given. “As you command My Lord!” Varon stood by the gate with his drink, distracted by this thoughts of what Markus had said at the dinner. His mind was troubled. ~ The next morning was damp and grey, with fog masking the distant forests. Varon walked down the corridor when he spotted one of the guards approach him, whom had noticeable bruises on what could be seen of his face. “Hmm...what happened to you?” “Forgive me My Lord, I was watching Her Highness as you asked, but I was put out cold and locked in one of the storage rooms.” “Where? When?” Varon asked, with urgency in his voice. “Not long after you asked me. It was in the Palace.” “Hmm... show where exactly this happened.” The guard let him away up the corridor. Eventually they met up with a tired Markus, still wearing the white coat he found the night before. Though at first he did not notice Varon, his turned around when his arm was grabbed by the blue haired nobleman. “Did you get the message last night.” Varon was angered by the state of his dirty appearance. Markus raised his eye brow, indicating to Varon that he had not been given the message. “Well, if you had, you'd know that your mother was worried sick.” Markus shrugged, seeming unbothered. Varon sighed with disgust; and with one swift punch, knocked him to his knees. “You make me sick! You talk about coming all this way for her, and all you've done is cause ill to her.” Markus was expressionless and silent still, angering Varon further. But knowing he was not getting through to him, Varon left without any parting words. Completely ignoring what had just happened, Markus continued down the corridor, trying to remember which room his mother was in. A while later, he found where he thought he would find her. He grabbed the door nob and barged his way inside. He found Lirina gazing out of the window, hopelessly at the foggy sky. She snapped out of her day dreaming, seeing Markus she rushed up to him in tears. “Where were you? I...I...” Markus stepped back, and lowered his head. “Forgive me. I didn't wish to upset you, but I had to take care of somethings last night.” Lirina stared at him with her hands clasped lightly. “Father told me you came here with others, is this true?” “Yes, they've been put in shelters on the other side of the city. About thirty or so.” “That's not too many; they can't stay here.” She was at unease hearing his decision. “But what choice do they have!?” “We can't leave them here... These people used us.” “And what do you want to do with them?” Markus paused for a while, the question had him stumped. “I... have some ideas. We have a home, and it isn't here,” he pleaded. Lirina was still unconvinced. “I don't exactly what will happen, but I do know nothing will happen if he stay. Father never raised us to do nothing... and I know I was never as good as her, but it's my responsibility now, whether we like it or not.” Lirina was uplifted by the answer, though still not entirely convinced. “And what if they don't want to come? Their not soldiers, and you can't make them.” “When we'll just have to ask them won't we.” Though still unsure, she was not prepared to deny him completely. She nodded with a gentle smile, and made her way to the exit, leading him to the shelters. Upon their way out they were greeted by a stoic king with his four personal guards. Though this time, Markus was not enraged, but wore smug smile which disturbed the king. “Hmm... I was coming the make sure our guest was feeling better, but you already seemed to of patched things up.” Markus was prepared for this encounter with a sharp tongue. “Thanks Your Majesty, but your conscience can rest, we're leaving.” Dmitri stared into his eyes again, sensing he was up to something. “...I see, it is your decision. Though I should warn you that once you leave, I may be unable to provide anymore help.” “It's fine Your Majesty, my father would be thankful for all your help.” “Is this meant to be some form of vengeance upon us? Revenge is a pitiful thing boy.” “That's true, but it did make me feel better.” Markus and Lirina walked past him, not giving a second look. The king clenched his jaw but spoke nothing. Markus called out him at the bottom end of the corridor. “Bless and be Forgiven Your Majesty!” he left with Lirina, and did not look back.

Chapter Three: The Green Rose. Morgan yawned and scratched his forehead, he was sat in the room of a cosy inn on tiny wooden stool, keeping his eyes on the white floral patterned bed which housed the still sleeping girl. It was silent outside, the town had been abandoned, leaving nothing but wrecked market stands and broken glass. The sound of footsteps could be heard on the stairs outside of the room, but he failed to react on them. The door soon opened and the azure eyed man entered with the smile on his face. “Anything yet?” he asked. Morgan rose out of his boredom. “Not yet.” “How long must we wait before we can leave? Do I need to remind you we have important matters to attend to?” The girl started to move around under the blanket, and awakened. She opened her eyes, which appeared like flies trapped in amber, and placed them on the pair with no expression. She stared at them for a whole minuted before Morgan broke the awkward silence. “H-hello there dear, how do you feel?” But there was no response, the girl just stared back with a blank face. “What's your name dear?” Still no response from her. The azure eyed man could not bare to watch it any further. “Can she even talk? Or does the poor thing have amnesia?” “Perhaps she's just completely ignorant. At any rate, I'm rather interested, she's clearly not an average person, and I've already had several hunches about her identity.” Morgan grinned and tapped his nose, though the azure eyed man could not of cared less, seeking to change the subject. “You can waste your time with her if you want. In the meantime, I'll be investigating a few Garollen nobles and such.” “Well, maybe I should be the one to speak with them, afterall, some of the House Lords do still trust me.” “True, but unfortunately, you trust them. I on the other hand will have no trouble of any kind dealing with them. You're more than welcome to go follow up those hunches while I investigate.” Morgan rose slowly and stretched his arms out. “That would be the best I suppose.” “Brilliant, I'll should get going right now. No time like the present!” The azure eyed man left, running down the stairs out of the empty inn. Morgan sighed and turned to the girl. “Somedays I wonder if Master Forryver enjoys this sort of thing all too much. But you don't need to be wor-” he noticed that the girl had not moved a single inch, nor had she changed her dumb expression. “Oh yes, I forgot. Now how is she suppose to come along if she doesn't understand anything?” he sighed again. and sat back down. He seemed to have given up on moving her in a polite manner. The girl rolled back into the bed. ~ Markus and his unwanted company trekked over the heather moorlands of Fayiron. The ground was muddy and wet with melted snow, and a cold southerly wind blew into their faces. Atop the largest hill, they could see a town in the distance. The whole group had a breath of relief, Gerald in particular had been of good spirit. “Ha ha! We actually made this far without meeting any of them guys.” Markus however seemed unamused. “It's a wonder when I've been travelling with a group of loud mouths.” He turned to the town ahead, focusing on the flag being flown from a tower. “Can any of you make that flag out?” The entire group, even the Northerners came out to stare at the flag. But none of them could identified it. The two male Northerners ran down the hill to get a better view, though Markus and Dyarl chased after the pair. They caught them at the foot of the hill, and after they regained their breath. “How can dirt be so stupid!?” Markus shouted. “If the enemy have reached here, they might catch us; so please more careful.” The scruffy guy of the pair seemed uncaring, even mocking them. “Well, you're the ones yelling you know.” Markus grabbed him by the collar of his garbs and dragged him closer. “Listen here you piece o' shit you're go-” Dyarl thrust his hand between the two faces, and separated them. “Now come on Sir, lets not not be rash.” But Markus ignored him, and shoved his victim out of the way before he walked away. “Well, I suppose I should be the one to apologise for his crude behaviour... erm-” “It's Shinzou, and he's Mahlo,” the blue haired of the two turned to them, and smiled. “Oh, yes, that's me Mister Dyarl.” “Mahlo you say? That's an unusual name for a Northerner.” Mahlo's expression became less cheerful. “Erm... well, it's kind of complicated,” a call from Markus interrupted the conversation. He seemed to be rather distressed. “Hey Jason, we've got a huge problem here,” he dragged Dyarl away, and pointed him to the flag. It was white with a gold trim, and the symbol of a dark green rose flower sat in the very middle. It waved from the clocktower in the town, which stood taller than any other building in the centre. “I though Garollen may have reached here by now, but House Elbenor? Not to even mention it being gold trimmed,” said Jason. “Yeah, the House Lord so close to the border,” Markus pondered. Dyarl grew a wide grin, and could not help but tease Markus. “Now now old buddy, no need to be so cold. Everyone kno-” “Enough! You'll keep your mouth closed!” he flailed his arms to push him away. “Can we just hurry up, get in there, get stuff and move on?!” “Well, that was the plan to gain supplies in disguise, but I'm not to sure of it anymore.” “Well listen, as much as I'd love to donate my arms to hungry Northerners, I need them for a few more important things. So that means we're getting some supplies. Oh... and I've got a plan, so you don't need to hurt that brain of yours.” A hand came above Markus' right shoulder and slammed down on him, he jumped and turned around to see the green haired women smirking at him, “No! I mean it, I've got a good idea.” “I didn't say anything.” “Well you're... I, forget it! Just come on.” He looked back up the hill at the last two. Gerald and Henrietta were conversing. “And that meaning you two as well, come on!” The pair snapped out of their chattering and crept down the hillside. And soon the group moved their way down further, into the thick bushes beside the dirt road that lead to the town gates. At the gates stood two Garollens in the standard iron armour and spears held vertically. Markus began to execute his plan. “Alright, start rustling.” He grabbed the bush in front of him and shook it with both hand. “Well come on. That's an order Dyarl!” The rest of them copied him to avoid irritating him, apart from one certain scruff who could not resist laughing at them. But to their amazement, the men at the gates actually moved towards the bushes, and Markus, followed by the rest, stopped shaking as the sound of feet approached. The pair gripped their right before the bush, but they could not see the awaiting death through the greenery. One of the pair leaned closer, a spear burst through the bush, impaling his collar at a gap in the armour. The other soldier rushed to attack the unseen foe, but only to be halted the Dyarl, who rose from the behind the bush and delivered a fatal cut to the neck with his longsword. The still bleeding man was dragged in and suffocated to death with a piece of cloth wrapped around his face and Markus' hand over his mouth. Both corpses were moved behind the bushes and stripped of their uniform. Markus began to undo the straps of his own armour. “Well Jason, what are you waiting for, put one on.” “We're going to disguise ourselves? B-but what about them?” he pointed to the rest of the group, who were sitting around without taking any particular interest. “No need to worry, I've thought this through.” “No far enough I'm wondering.” “Will you just... why do you always have to question me like that? You always do that! You'd never act this way with my father. Am I some kind of joke to you?” Dyarl was unfazed by his words. “It's just you're a friend, and not the kind of person I'd take seriously.” Markus rolled his eyes, and started to put the uniform on. Dyarl opened his mouth to speak, but silenced himself and began to remove his own armour in exchange for the other stolen uniform. Soon they were ready, dressed in a full set of Garollen infantry armour with closed helmets to hide their faces. Markus started to look around through their equipment. “Anyone got some rope or anything?” The Northerners shook their heads, Gerald searched through a large sack he was carrying. “Naw Mister Markus, I've got nothing.” Markus sighed and kicked the ground, looking around for an idea. “Alright alright. You three!” he pointed to the Northerners. “Can you put your hand behind you're backs and look captured?” The three of them stood up and placed their hands behind them as if they had been bound. “It will have to do, but you'll have to leave your stuff here.” He turned back to Dyarl. “We should be able to move around the town easily, as long as not too many see us.” He rose and lead the three on to the road, he jabbed his spear lightly into Shinzou's side. “Get a move on, scum.” “Are you acting that or what?” Markus jabbed him slightly harder. “Alight alight,” Shinzou hopped away from the spear. Dyarl moved to the front of the group and prepared to go, but there was a sudden outcry from Henrietta. “Hey! What about us two, you can't just leave us like this!” She waved her arms for attention, Dyarl and Gerald rushed to calm her down. “Please Miss Henrietta, we have to be quieter.” “But she's got a point Mister Dyarl, you're honestly going to leave us here?” “Oh well... hmm,” he pondered for a brief moment. “Hey Markus! How long are we going to be?” “I don't know, one or two hours I guess.” “I see, well keep yourselves hidden here, and if we're not back in two... three hours, head for the border by yourselves, you get that?” They did not speak, but nodded and looked at each other nervously. ~ The other began to make their way into the town. They passed the gates onto a cobble stone path down the centre. They were surrounded by building of many sizes and materials, wood, stone and bricks. The Northerners were in awe, though Markus and Dyarl cared more for dodging nasty things on the ground. The soldiers marching down the streets took no notice of them, and the group made their way to the edges of the town plaza unhindered. There was a large fountain with a grand bird as the centrepiece, spanning it's wings wide, with water flowing from it's open beak. Markus scratched his helmet, and watched the many vigilant soldiers marching in and out of the plaza in two rows of twelve. Markus was stumped. “Well I figured the markets wouldn't be bustling today, but this is bad.” “Perhaps we should look for stores that are less crawling with them lot.” “That would be a good... actually, could we split up?” Dyarl stared at him for a while. “Well... it's just that we can... you know, cover more ground.” “Don't worry ol' friend, I get it.” He patted him on the back, knocking Markus forwards. “While I do the work, you'll be looking for your friend, such a shame that now is not the time.” “Shut up! For the last time, there's nothing between me and that... monster of woman.” His rage grew listening to the echoing chuckles in Dyarl's Helmet. “Stop it will ye! You check the north side, I'll take south, we'll meet bad here in an hour... or so.” Dyarl felt the light tapping on the bottom of his legs, trying round to see Mahlo. “And us?” “Oh, well... you'll be with me. Just try to be quiet.” He turned back to see that Markus was walking off without any other word. “Wait... ugh...” He gave up and prompted the Northerners to walk up the street in the opposite direction, keeping them in single file. Markus looked around at the few Garollens straight posture and vertically held spears, and attempted to adopt the same movements; though the soldiers were too busy at work to notice the lone man. Markus saw that the buildings were only residential, and with a glance through the windows, he realised the wouldn't find anything useful nearby. He continued onwards. Soon he found himself standing in the shadow of a flag. It hug from a horizontal poll off a building, bearing the green rose of House Elbenor. It was an unusual building compared to the rest: the stone was smooth and dark, surrounded by shoddy housing. Markus moved backwards into the middle of the street for a better view, only to bump into a figure he recognised. He had a hooked nose, receding dark grey hair, tired grey eyes and many wrinkles. He wore a purple robe around his white coat. The name escaped him, but he remembered the face from a banquet at Gareguess two years before. The man looked at with with a light smile seeming unbothered, though Markus was uneasy. “My apologises Sir Lee... Lam-” “Laramiah.” The man moved on towards the building with a slow pace. “Oh, how foolish of me, were you coming here as well?” “Erm... I guess so.” Markus tried his best not to act suspicious, so he followed Laramiah into the building on his invitation. It was a grand interior, with silverware plates on the shelves, and polished wood banister up the stairs; which Laramiah ascended. There seemed to be no other people in the building, beyond the guards at the door, and an unseen figure whom he heard Laramiah greeting on the second floor. Markus was able to ease his worry of being caught. He walked up the stairs, following the voices from the first room on the left on the landing, the stood next to the open doorway and listened in. “So, Mister Nolman, I believe you have a certain package for me, do you not?” The other man spoke in a deep, grandiose tone. “I do not, for you see, I sent it to Lord Valenhearth by horse.” “I see, I see, I see I see. Why? After all, were you not under orders, that when you were given the package here in Antabis, that you were to hand it to Sir Isaiah Laramiah, who would hand to Lord Valenhearth in person?” “Well of course Valen-looney would want his old man assistant to sloooowwwly do the task. I'm doing the lunatic a favour.” “Well, if you insist, but he won't be happy, and I'm certainly am not. All that way-” “Yes yes, all tragic and such-” “But that's not your only blunder, hmm...” “What are you blabbing about now old man?” “Well, it's just that I've notice that the town is void of any Searan civilians, peasants, commoners, whatever you like to call them.” “And?” “Well, I'm no soldier, but didn't His Majesty decree that the Searans should be kept within their settlements and their escape prevented? So you, Lieutenant Nolman, have either failed to detain the civilians in the town of Antabis which your men occupy, or you've moved them to somewhere else. Which I'm guessing has not been allowed by the House Lord or the King.” “Well, that's not what you came here to discuss so will yo-” “Oh my, oh my, what would your superiors say about this, hmm?” “G-G-Get out! You scheming old man! You got what you came for, so please just leave!” “Well, fortunately for you, I must be leaving now thanks for you incompetence. So I'll have no time to report this to the House Lord, a shame really, it would be amusing to watch the Ice queen's blood boil.” Markus received a shock from Nolman storming out of the room, he was a tall, middle aged man, with neck length fiery hair, and a small, pointed beard. He wore the same dull bronze coloured armour as the other soldiers, but be wore a crimson cape. He glared at Markus with is sharp hazel eyes, but didn't speak or question why he was eavesdropping, he just stomped down the stairs, leaving the building in rage. “My apologises again, did the primate scare you?” Laramiah gave a faint chuckle, seeming unbothered by Markus' spying. “N-no Sir.” Laramiah's laughing became louder. “A shame, I wish it could have been more private, but apes are so terribly loud.” He also headed for the exit, leaving a confused, but relieved Markus without any trouble. After nearly being caught out, he regained his composure; but only to be cut short by the sound of Laramiah, who was speaking to someone right outside the door. “Aha! Wonderful greetings Milady, you're as stunning as ever. Why, if I were thirty years younger, I'd stay longer, but alas,” his voice faded away as he walked off. “Farewell!” The hard sound of boots could be heard downstairs. The meeting room which Markus had soon entered consisted of a round table, four cushioned chairs, a wardrobe, and a bed with a canopy. He had nowhere to run, and the sounds of many feet marched up the stairs. He flung himself into the empty wardrobe for hiding, just managing to fit him and the thick armour inside enough to close the doors. The people entered, and the shuffling of all four chairs could be heard. A whole new conversation had begun. First to speak was a man, with bland, and sleep inducing voice. “What is the meaning of this? We desired to speak with the King of Garollen.” The voice that replied was as sharply cold as a Frostmor morning. “Hmm, these are Bremoe's so called 'Negotiators'? Nothing but a group of whining children. When you speak to me, you should remember this; if we choose it, we could topple you in a day. His Majesty has granted your land great mercy to listen to your excuses.” The silence was awkward as the men prepared a response. “Well, there is no reason for an invasion of Bremoe. Any plot that posed a threat to the throne of Garollen was Searan's undoing,” a second man defended his partner. “This, our Lord will vouch for. We wish for any uneeded conflict to be prevented, even if it means that Searan must be absorbed into the Garollean Empire,” said a third man. Markus could only just contain his anger over what he was listening to. “His Holy Majesty of Bremoe has demanded further investigation into the extent of this conspiracies, and justice is assured.” “That's all? Such a waste of breath.” “His Holy Majesty does also wish for the assurance that there will be fair treatment for the peasantry of Searan. He is well aware of Garollen's policies during war, but if Garollen is to hold lasting control of Searan-” “I understand this. However, only His Majesty can speak on such things.” “When we demand to speak-” “Impudence! He will speak only to the King of Bremoe on such matters, never to worms. His Majesty has no time for worms, nor do I.” “This is outrageous! How dear you speak that way to His Holiness' serv-” “Leave now! Sliver away, and do not return until you've chosen to abide by His Majesty's wishes.” There was a stillness, until the men confirmed their loss for words. Markus could hear the noises of chairs shuffling and the grumbling of the three men, defeated in such short time. The room fell into silence once more, and after several minutes, it went unbroken. The wardrobe door opened slowly as Markus peeked his head out to find the room empty. Not a moment too soon he thought; his eyes were red with fury, tapping his fingers on the spear on his back. But there was also fear, and he knew he was no long safe in the building, or the town, or country. He hurried for the door, hoping to go unseen, but a towering figure that came into the door-frame froze him dead. She was a tall, strongly built in shape, dressed in a suit of emerald armour, rimmed with gold. Her waving blond locks reached right down to her thighs, and shone against the green of her armour. Her face consisted of little more than a thin pair of lips, small nose, and a pair of razor blue eyes. Their stand off was long, with neither sword or words drawn. Sweat ran down Markus' face, the pressure bared down on him like lead, his lips struggling to open. “W-Well?” he trembled. She said nothing, tilting her head up and looking at him with contempt. “Well!” he cried. She walked up to him, each step causing Markus to quiver. She drew a longsword from her back and raised it above her head vertically. She chopped it down towards his forehead with both hands. The blade met with the resistance of the spear pole. But the her force overwhelmed Markus, bringing him down on one knee. Her sword was raised again, and slammed down against the metal of he spear several times, breaking it down the middle. It missed Markus by a hair. The assault had stopped temporally, allowing him to move back. “Listen! I give!” he placed his hands in front of him. “Markus, if only you'd kept your pathetic mouth closed.” She charged at him, lunging her sword for his chest. His body jerked to the right, dodging her attack. In that small moment he attempted the decisive strike to the neck with what was left of his weapon. His thrust was halted when she grabbed the snapped pole with her left hand, and redirected the attack away positioning herself for the response. Markus tried to release his weapon from her grip, falling back after failing with all his force. When he darted his eyes back, her sword was thrust through the side of his stomach, and the pain raced up his spine. She withdrew the sword slowly, making sure he got the best view of the blood run down the edge. He slammed onto the floor with his body, and though he had covered the wound with his hand. The blood flowed between his fingers like a river. He glared by at her from the floor, clenching his teeth at her back which faced him. “F-face me... you b-bitch.” She responded by walking away. “Damn my luck.” Those words made her turn back and approach him, looking down upon him though he were a mangled rat. “Your luck you say?” She kicked him onto his back and place her right foot on the wound, pressing into it. Markus begun to breathe heavily; and his vision was blurred. He tried to speak, but only blood rose from his throat. “Don't use such words to describe our difference. I'm strong, and you're weak, that's all it is.” She drew her sword and pointed it to his throat. “You're still the same worm as before, that's why she's-” she halted, taking small pity upon him. “So, would you rather bleed to death, or have me kill you now?” He looked up the blade and into her hollow eyes, words finally screeched from his mouth. “Sebannah... sto...” his eyes forced themselves shut, and the world completely disappeared around him. His breathing had ended, and his body turned limp and died. ~ Markus opened his eye's, but it was no different, surrounded by the perfect darkness. He opened his mouth, but there was only silence. It seemed to last forever, enough for his unease to vanish along with the rest of his emotions, he floated within the cold vacuum. A tiny light shone from ahead, but he could possible tell how far it was. Its size or shape didn't change as he moved in whatever direction he seemed to be going, and he took no notice of it or the voices that echoed from it. The first was deep, masculine voice. “Are you sure this is safe?” he sounded unsure. The second voice was of a young girl, full of confidence and reassurance. “Of course, why would you think any different?” “Forgive me, I was foolish to question our Valdine-Re-” “Hush! It's working.” The first voice stopped speaking. “Hello? Hello!? Aha... you there! Can you hear me!?” Markus' eyes drifted towards the light source. “Uh-” “Well, what's your name?” “My name? It's Markus Horuston.” His voice had become monotone and cold. “Hmm... Markus Horuston...Aha! That's no good at all, you're dead!” “This is being dead?” “Well, nearly. Your body is dying, and you mind is trapped here in limbo. But this isn't right at all, you should not... cannot be dead.” “Limbo?” “That's right. The domain of the Night Lady: the land of uncertain ghosts. You have regret? Or seek vengeance or such. Soon you'll find your way back to the world as a formless spirit, or lose all feeling and memories.” “...oh.” “But you certainly don't have to time for that, you've got important things to be doing alive, no? That is to say, news of what has happened has reached me just this afternoon.” “And?” “And, it would be unfortunate that you, the heir of Searan should die at this time. After all, your people need their leader, right? And considering that I happened to encounter you in this realm, it may be a sign that you are a gear in my clock. Erm... in short; I couldn't possibly allow you to die.” “Are you saying, you could let me live?” “I do have a way... and yet, I shouldn't do such a thing.” “But... you said I shouldn't die.” “Well,” she paused for a moment, “would you like to live?” “If I'm here in this place, isn't that a stupid question?” “Aha... very well, I shall perform the ritual here, it should work.” The light dimmed into a spark, and three pairs of ghostly arms grew outwards. They danced with fluid movements, clasping many fingers together and drawing complex runic patterns. The spark had then grew into large circle, filled with strange ancient letters which was held in place by all six arms. Is rodo divum stolu, Oqud custulf lacgoi. Liasdus som roves, Oqud naplles som doca. Adoc tu tesriv engua, Oqud arepo suus esjasati. Flectino tu rex. The circle's glow grew brighter until Markus was blinded by it's radiance, the voice spoke once more to him, but a sound like blustering gales deafened him. The blackness had become an endless tunnel of light which Markus felt himself speed though, constantly gaining momentum. At the end, he crashed into the spiritual barrier, jumping back to life. ~ He awoke in the blanket of an unfamiliar bedding. He was outside, lying in a bedroll next to a large, round rock, the grass appeared short and damp. Markus looked up at the clear night sky with is pale face, and stared at the glimmering stars. His thoughts were tangled and blurred, and much distracted by the pain in his stomach which was wrapped with bandages. His silent pondering was broken by the rejoice of his friend Dyarl, who rushed towards him. “Ha! You're... you're alive! Alive! He's okay!” Dyarl could not contain his relief for Markus' recovery. Markus head pounded at the sound of his voice. “Uh, please don't yell, please,” he rested his face within his palm. “Oh, sorry old friend, you just, you looked dead.” Dyarl was gleeful at his return. “I... I was dead? Ugh... how'd I get here? I... was in some place... and... there was b...blood... and-” “Ah yes, Elissa,” Dyarl pointed to the Northerner woman, “she found you, and got you out.” “Uhh... what? How? They were with you.” “Well, I left the three of them outside while I check out a a butcher I found, and when I came back out, they'd vanished, and well... when I found them again, you were with them, dying.” Markus and even Dyarl were still puzzled by how it happened. “Well we were booored!” Shinzou belted at the pair from the campfire. He turned back and muttered to himself. “Besides, ye can't find any good myrtle or agaric around these parts, especially for sale.” Henrietta put her book down and glanced at him. “That's right isn't it, that's why you folk are going south, to collect fungi.” Markus came up to the campfire, joining the conversation; hoping to take his mind of his injury. “So, let me get this straight. You three are travelling all this way to get high off mushrooms.” Mahlo interjected into the conversation. “Well... it's great stuff, and can't be found back home. We're going to store it for next Frostmor. You see Markus, following the traditions of our Ceran ancestors, we use certain plants and materials for-” Markus had walked off, bored with Mahlo's explanations. “Oh... well do please forgive me.” Markus approached the Northerner woman, who was leaned against the large rock, staring at the horizon. Markus was interested only in answers. “Well?” She made no response. “What did you do?” She turned away. “Okay, I'm sorry Miss... Elissa, wasn't it?” “Uh hm.” She nodded, though still not facing him. “I thank you for... saving my life. I was wonder if it would be wrong of me to ask how you were able to do so.” She move away from the rock and faced him. “Those lights over there, could it be,” Markus moved around her and looked in the shame direction in which she pointed. In the distant night sky, flew five glowing lights, they moved off to the left, but seemed to be slowly coming in. Markus could also make out odd shadowed figures carrying the lights, he ran back to the campfire where the rest of the group were sitting. “We've gotta go, right now!” He shouted. Dyarl swallowed the last of his bread. “Eh? But we only just got down for supper...” “An-wyrm riders, over the hills, heading over here. We should get going.” “You sure? You're still injured.” “Well if they see us, the whole area will be swarming by-” Markus looked around at the lazy group: with Shinzou and Mahlo not even taking paying attention, and the Humenves were reading books. “Could you at least put the fire out!” The five snapped back to reality and glared at Markus. Shinzou took the chance to jab at him. “Maybe they won't find us if... ye know, shut up.” Markus clenched his fist hard, but admitted to another defeat and sat down. The An-wyrm circled the skies above them several times before returning from where they came. Dyarl realised he would have to bring his friend up to speed. “There's no need to worry Sir, we're close to the border and we'll be setting off soon. We'll be safe by the time they get here. You should calm down and rest.” Markus sat down and decided to not question the odd authority of a half baked plan. “I still want to know how that woman saved me,” he said. Elissa approached him from behind and leaned onto his left shoulder. “I'll tell... on one condition.” “And that is?” Markus inquired. She pondered her request for a short while. “Well, I can't give secrets to people I don't even know. So hows about telling my a bit about yourself, starting with explaining to us who your girlfriend is.” “Lady Elbenor, if she can be called a lady, is the ruler of one of Garollen's original noble houses. Someone my and my sister had the displeasure of meeting,” he answered. Though Dyarl was confused by his explanation. “Really? Rythia and Seby always seemed to be good friends. Speaking of which, I suppose she still blames you.” He didn't realise that Markus was stood in front of him. “Is something wron-” a fist smashed into his face before he could finish. He was knocked to the ground. Everyone stared in silence. “You dare forget your place,” Markus snarled. Dyarl sat back up, making no comment as he rubbed the bruise on his left cheek. “You have no place to speak about me or Rythia like that.” He stormed away to rest behind the large rock. No one wanted to hear anymore, apart from Elissa. “What was that all about?” She stood up. Shinzou grabbed her arm. “Nobody wants you to get involved with anything that don't got anything to do with you.” She stared back at him with her single eye. Dyarl was still silent, and the rest were trying to relax in peace. The lights in the far distance danced in an arrow formation, pointing to the sky. Markus slept by the rock, with a strange message ringing in this ear.

Chapter Two: Wet Horse. A small eruption came from the small hill of snow which covered a round stone well. Like the dead raising, a gloved hand burst through the white, it waved around in a mad attempt to discover the ground. Markus and Dyarl both emerged from the well at the end of the escape tunnel, they groaned and stirred. Their faces were frozen pale, and their breath was heavy with thick white clouds forming with each exhale. Standing knee high in the snow, they found themselves lost, surrounded by many shadowed trees and eerie fog, without any familiar sight. It had been hours since the attack at the castle, but the two could not remember how long the tunnel went on for, and the fog blocked out the sky, distorting all knowledge of time. Not a single sound beyond Markus' chilled impatience. “J-J-Jason,” Markus wrapped his arms around himself for what little warmth there was, “w-w-where are we?” “We must be somewhere in Liturusiva Lavis.” Dyarl was equally cold, but managed to keep himself together. They both looked around, unable to determine directions. “A-and which way is a-anywhere?” Kicking the snow around him, Markus became irritated. “Please Sir, let us remain calm. I need but a few moments to figure our path out. At any rate, please be patient.” Dyarl began to walk off with his head tilted upwards to the high tree tops. “Be patient? Great idea Jason! I'll be patient while I freeze to death.” Markus was at this nerve ends, and the cold almost penetrated his sanity. “You know, I could have done one of two things today. I could have lost my life by dying in battle, or I could have lost my pride by being captured. But noooooooo, I'm going lose both by freezing in some vile little forest,” he whined. Dyarl ignored his rambling, still trying to discover their path. “So... the tunnel took us to the west, so,” looking back at the well they emerged from, the answer came to him. “We should head this way Sir.” He pointed into what seemed like the same as any other direction. Calming down, Markus made no objection, as anywhere was better than their current position to him. And so they walked down south, hopefully out of the foggy cold forest. To take their minds off the situation, Dyarl indulged into trivial conversation. “You ever walked down the Golden Road here Sir?” “Yeah once, just seemed like a few mossy old stones to me.” Lacking any real interest as his mind was still fixed on the recent past but Dyarl seemed somewhat hurt by the blunt answer. Their path began to steepen down hill with may snapping branches where they trekked. “How can you be so heartless Sir, sure it's no Big Bridge, but Liturusiva has always had an enchanted feel,” he smiled in reminiscence. He turned to Markus, who seemed to be miles away, so much so that not even the cold bothered him anymore. He was staring off into the trees with too much passing through his mind, Dyarl could see these thoughts which were written on his face. His cheery banter had disappeared, and he found himself struggling to find words in which he could reassure his friend with. “You know Sir, I doubt they would hav-” he stopped, to mentally punch himself; realising it would not have been the best thing to say. Markus' mind is dragged back to the forest, and the words and the cold enraged him once more. “Would have what huh?” “I was just thinking, Sir, they... well, I doubt they wouldn't have killed him, your father and such,” he paused to decide how to continue his baiting speech. Markus made no reply in speech, but gave Dyarl a glare. “Please Sir, I didn't mean to sound so... I really am concerned as well you know.” “I know, and sorry, but I'm not in the mood for talking,” calming down, he sighed and stroked his hair. So without any sound, they continued going ever faster to exit the miserably cold forest. The forest never seemed to change, each tree appeared the same, tall, dead, jagged and black. Despite their movements, their minds doubted whether they were making any progress at all, the only thing that seemed to change was the fog that waved in eerie torment and crept up their backs with chilled hugs, filling them with sorrow and paranoia. The maddening silence lasted a short while, until, two planks of wood emerged out of the fog to smack Markus in the legs and chest, which caused him to fall back. “Sir, are you alright?” Dyarl asked, trying to hold in his chuckles. Markus sat up in the snow and shook his head. “Uuh... damn, what the heck was that?” “It's a fence Sir, looks like we've reached a field.” Indeed they had, the fog cleared up ever so slightly, enough for them to see the wide sheet of snow between the wooden fencing. Markus stood up and then leaned on the fence, focusing his gaze into the fog. “I think... there's some lights over there.” Markus managed to make out three orange blurs across the field. “Oh? T-t-thank g-goodness.” The image of warmth merely reminded Dyarl that it was the thing he lacked at that moment, and sent shivers down his spine. “lets go go g-go already Sir!” “Y-yeah yeah, lets just hurry,” Markus responded, as he got both his stiff legs over the wood fence; leaving the miserably cold forest behind him. They both dragged themselves across the thick sheet with all their effort, with the orange salvation slowly getting closer with each step. Dyarl's foot hit a small rock which tripped him over face flat. “Will you just stop being a clown Jason!” Markus stared at him, scowling. Dyarl made no reply as he forced himself to his feet, and continued to move on. And after what seemed to be forever, they had managed to drag their weary bodies to the other side, and the orange lights were surrounded by the silhouettes of buildings. They opened the gate that spilled snow on their hands, and moved on to what they could feel to be a dirt track under the endless sheet. They treaded into the centre of the small town, with fog hidden buildings all around them. They looked around for the lights that gave then hope, but all searches were unsuccessful, for the town was emptier than the frozen forest, truly an eerie ghost town they both thought. Markus knelt over and rested his head in the palm of his hand, panting and sighing, losing what little hope he had left. But, out of the nothingness came a laughter, snide and untamed. They both cringed at the noise, but proceeded to follow it, finding the lights that gave them the hope they so sorely needed. They closed in on the light source, discovering it to be lanterns burning brightly with thick waxy candles. And above the arched door swung a large sign, starring a black horse's head with a white stripe down it's face. “The Wet Horse,” the sign read. Markus and Dyarl stared in disbelief, finding the name to be foolish. But when they hear the clashing of glass and the faint voices from within, they could not restrain their desire for food and warmth. “I-I'm sure they'll be kind enough to let us in.” Dyarl tried to reassure both himself and Markus. And so, Markus stood up to the large arched door, knocking then waiting, then he knocked again. But there was no reply, other than the teasing sound of enjoyment within, pushing Markus to bash the door heavily. A small slot on the upper half of the book swiped open and the sounds of pleasure rushed out louder, with laughter and chit chat that stabbed them both with envy. “'nough of that, what do you want?” called the brown eyes, that glared at them. Markus snapped back from his listening in and tried his best to reply with politeness. “P-P-Please good Sir, would... would we be able to enter your... pub... inn?” It was hard for Markus to speak, with the frost on his tongue. “And you two lil' whelps would be?” the eyes asked, without any concern for their condition. “I'm Freezing, and he's Frostbitten,” Markus rebuked. “Oh... feeling witty are ye now?” the voice paused, considering the possibilities of their identity. “ You certainly don't look the regulars... oh yeah, them lilly livered wimps done packed up and ran for the hills.” The comment astonished Dyarl. “In this weather? Were they-” but the comment was cut short by Markus, who put aside his sarcasm. “P-Please good Sir, we're merely freelancers. Surely you've got room in their for us to stay the night.” The doorman thought for a while, watching the two helplessly freeze. “Well.” The slot slammed shut, with Markus and Dyarl still lurching in snow and darkness,.They dropped to their knees in surrender to the cold. But, to their great fortunes, the door nob turned, and the light of the room burst out to them in a single wide swing. “I suppose there'd be no harm in it.” The two slowly entered, almost in disbelief of the kind turn around. “But don't ye be causing any trouble, not like I got enough of that already,” added the man. He was tall, somewhat fat and balding, with on a brown patch of hair on the back of his skull and sides. Wearing a muddy white shirt and brown jacket. He looked over his left shoulder to the doorway from their the noises came, and stretches his hand towards another door to his right. “Well young whelps, perhaps the bar this way would suit ye better.” Markus and Dyarl stepped through the doorway, bowing in respect and shivering the melted ice onto the floorboards. “Thank you good Barkeeper,” they both said, as they walked past the large man. They stepped into a spacious bar. “Shall I be lighting the fire for you cold dogs?” The invitation was replied instantly with gracious blessing. So, ten minutes later, the two weary men found themselves sat in front of the roaring fireplace, with weapons and armour drying next to them, Markus still wore his dark top and cream trousers and Dyarl in a grey shirt and a short brown trousers. They both held large cooper tankards full of ale. Markus took a large gulp of his drink, putting his hand across his forehead. Now out of the harsh, consuming snow, Markus reflected on the events he and his kinsmen suffered that day, the image of fire and blood was still strong in his mind, still seeing the men who burnt into nothing. But most of all, those eyes of expected defeat from his father, and the questions ran through his mind, jabbing him. “Jason, how could it of happened?” “How could of what happened?” he respond, as he put his drink on the floor next to him. “Well, you know... why didn't we see it coming?” “Ah, well, it wouldn't of mattered any other way. We're just a pebble to the wave,” He sighed and looked up. “And yet, why didn't we see them earlier.” “Farner knows the lands better than most people. And with our lack of men, it was no trouble for him to march in like that.” Markus looked down in shame, but Dyarl did not seem to notice the depression. “Well, we shouldn't dwell on it, we got no real choice but to head for Bremoe and Jis-” “Pffft!” Markus interrupted , grabbing his companion's attention. “In other words, we're running... running so we can hide behind a bunch of Etustir suck ups and traitors.” The feeling of rising bile rammed up his throat at the idea. The irritating, snide laughter came bursting into the room, which added to their pleasure. Markus grinded his booze soaked teeth, trying to block out the laughing with his might, but to no avail as nothing prevented the ear splitting pain. “Will you bastards just shut it!” “Sir! There's no need for that, I'm sure if we talk to the Barkeeper, we could get this sorted out.” “No Jason, their gonna have to-” Dyarl had gotten up before he finished him complaint, and had gone to the entrance to find the barkeeper. He then looked up the flight of wooden stairs where he found him descending from. “Please don't tell me you guy are gonna start causing trouble 'ere as well,” he asked, while he rubbed his eyes. “About that, who are those people? They seem awfully loud.” “Aye a bunch of thugs,” he turned his head to the other bar, where the racket still raced out of. “I'd ask them to leave, but you know what some people can be like. Always with the breaking and smashing.” “Well, perhaps me and my friend could have a word with them, surely a bunch of thugs should be no trouble for experienced fighters like us.” Markus strode in, with curiosity in his expression. “We? Who's that?” Dyarl was astonished by Markus' selfishness. “C'mon Sir, I could handle them myself, but having you for backup might... convince them to leave in peace. Afterall, fine fighters like ourselves-” the rambles seemed to progress for ever. Markus scratched the back of his head to occupy himself for a while. “Jason!” But Dyarl still rambled on trying to convince the already convinced “JASON!” And he snapped back to reality with a stumble. “I get it already, I'll come help you talk to these guys.” “No no, you won't have to talk... p-please don't. I'd like to not start anything.” Markus stared at him blankly, offended by Dyarl's blatant bashing. He opened his mouth to fire back, but not before the laughter rattled his brain once again; it shoved Dyarl's words out of his memory. “Okay, fine! Lets just hurry up with this.” He tried to raise his own voice above the rackety laugh, but Dyarl could not make out his message. With his irritation raised once more, Markus clenched his right fist, and with his left, he dragged Dyarl into the darker room, the origin of the noises that tormented them so. He and Dyarl stood in the doorway, staring across tables to the lair of laughing beast, who were in fact, three people, and from the second he laid eyes on them, Dyarl recognized them in an instant. “Them clothes Sir, Northerners.” All three of them wore distinct sandy garbs lined with black triangle patterns, with short sleeves and drenched in sweat and booze. “Oh joy, a group of filthy cannibals, watch they don't go for your arm or something,” Markus warned, as they crept up on the drunken threesome. Upon a closer inspection of them, they found them to a two men and a woman. One man, around the age of nineteen, was slouched over the table as drunk as a sailor. His grass green eye were barely open, and clouded by the flow of alcohol. His hair was nor neat or spiked, but had the appearance of horse's dung, badly gift wrapped in a dark blue bandanna. He rolled his crooked smile up and down the woodwork of the round table, with brown patched of dirt all over his face and clothes and a minimum amount of rough fuzz on his chin. Opposite of him was a more neat, but equally drunk man of the same age, with shorter sky blue hair, paler and far superior in cleanliness, and with soft sapphire eyes that struggled ever so hard against the toxins that rushed through his mind, reddening his small cheeks. His body was much more lanky, without a single muscle in sight. His crimson face stared at the celling, violently shaking like an earthquake. His hands gripped the edge of the table, fighting with all their mediocre might, but nothing could prevent the collapse of his foundations. He fell on the table with a faint crash, knocking many tankards to their dented grave. But, in between stand a more stoic figure. It took the form of a tall, strongly built woman. She sat with a straight spine, as she slowly drank down her ale without hazard. She Possessed long, swampy green hair with two large round locks coming down in front of her ears. She placed her tankard on the table, revealing her face, the right eye whole top right side was mummified in ragged bandages. She had noticed them enter long ago, but now stared at them with her remaining apathetic green eye, she didn't speak, or reached for the attention the of drunken disasters. Instead, that one eye gazed deep into Markus, and froze him faster than even the harsh night possibly could. He couldn't turn away or close his eyes, his tongue was torn as if it had been shredded by razor talon. The silent assault of the bird of prey was cut short by a loud and clumsy voice that Markus had no time to recognise. “Might I have a work with you three?” Dyarl asked. The woman turned, leaving the shrew in a wreck. She placing her hawk gaze on a her new target, Dyarl, though he resisted. “...erm... people.” “Of course, take a seat.” Her voice was a calm and soft lullaby that turned Markus into a tried, battered mess. “Your friend looks as if...” “It's... it's been a hard day,” Dyarl said, as he accepted the invitation of the chair. Though Markus preferred to stand when dealing with others, though the only deals he felt he could make right there, was with vomit. “And so, how might I help you young gentlemen?” Her question however, caused Dyarl's demeanour to change, as the Northerner's sarcasm dented him. “No need to patronise us now dear.” Though the woman merely smiled in defiance. “What's wrong eh? But really, what would people like you want with us simple folk?” “Well, we're a bit concerned about the noise that you and your friends appear to be making and-” “Would it be okay of me to correct you a few points there, Searan?” Dyarl stopped to let he speak though peeved by the rude interruptions. “Firstly, they're not my friends, they are my travelling companions, if they can be called even that. And secondly, we were making no noise, he was.” She pointed to the scruffy man laying across the table merely inches from herself. “Well, you were clearly suffering from clouded judgement when you chose to bring them weren't you.” “PAH! And you weren't?” She pointed and stared again at Markus who was resting his weary face in his palm “I would have thought you'd pick someone who can stand still while sober.” “Now hold on there... lady. He's had few, and with the day we've had... well-” Cut suddenly short by an unwanted yet familiar noise. The brown haired Northerner leaped up into the back of his chair, laughing once more. His crocked mouth was wide open, revealing his shape snake like tongue that spat it's alcoholic venom. He franticly waved his bent finger towards Markus; though too wasted to hold steady, and began yelling garbled words around the room. “Uhg... that guys loosh as if 'es got a righ' shtick up 'is arsh.” Markus' composure returned, enough for him to glare at the poisonous snake. “F-filth like you shouldn't speak so boldly.” He walked up to him, as if to beat him; though the woman intervened to prevent it. “Don't be hard on him, he's drunk after all.” “Uuuh... I suppose you got a point.” “No no, he'd would have said that even if he wasn't, but he's too drunk to die right now.” “I say Sir, these drunkards are clearly not going to be a match, you should get some rest.” Markus indignantly glanced at him. “Our room is left at the end of the stairs, then first on the right.” Dyarl smiled to reassure the weary Markus. “Fine! It's not like there's any point in trying to reason with Northerners, let alone drunken ones.” And he stormed off too his room like a naughty boy, but not before meeting with the barkeeper once more. “You heading off to sleep or what?” He said from half way down the stairs. “Yeah, never going get anywhere with them people, but as long as he keeps them talking, it should keep them out of the way.” “Good to hear that,” he chuckled. “Aye, me and the wife been worrying about them all night, you never know what them folk can act.” “I guess,” he said, while he walked up the stairs; still feeling rather faint. Soon he had reached the room, turning the bronze nob the door creaked open as he entered the rugged wooden room. Lit by many white candles, but the dance of the flames failed to lighten Markus up. He laid down on one of the two small white bed with his feet going off the edge, and his eyes dead set on the ceiling, weary, beaten and shamed. He lied for what seemed for an eternity, the cold cruel wind laughed at him from behind the window, which reminded him of the frozen night he had to endure, and the feeling of frostbite returned to him, the cold that ate away at his organs and left his body in a lifeless state. And on ceiling from which he was paralysed to turn away from, ran the thick blood of familiar soldiers. The blood moved and mixed until the faces of the fallen were made present before him, they moaned and stirred until his twitching eyes could take no more, and like mouse traps they snapped shut. But even in the dark confines of his lids, he was still chased by torment, now by the hawk that stared at him, and by the screams of words he could not possibly make out, they scratched with sheiks of claws. But when all seemed too much, the screams and beasts washed away by light rain. Shadows of humans now flowed and sweet voices filled a warm serous breeze, and yet they were distorted like a rippling river. Though it mattered not, Markus forgot his pain, and he found himself happily lost in this little world. Yet suddenly a sentence burst through to him. “He's alright, but...” and he fell, down down into the fires that scorched him, biting his flesh until. “But nothing you!” He found himself in the bed again, the lights were all out and everything was unseen in the night. He could feel the dampness of his clothes which held his sweat, as did his plastered hair. He panted for a lasting while as he regained his mind from the dark grasp, and as he looked around, he could make out lumps in the other bed, and realised that time must have past. He wiped the sweat off his forehead as he rested his head back into the pillow, and he forced himself into rest. ~ The next morning, he awoke much gentler, the weak sun shone on his face from the window. The feeling of weakness had fled from him and he felt the lowly vigour of a new day. The door creaked open for an unwelcome voice. “Sir, are you up now?” Dyarl poked his head into the room. “We really need to getting a move on and such Sir.” “uh.... fine fine, breakfast and my things?” “Both are downstairs Sir,” he left in a flash. With his awakening ruined, Markus lunged himself out of bed. His bliss truly ended when he remembered the day before, and he sighed. With no time to wash or change his sweat and snow drenched clothes, he pulled himself out of the room and down the wood stairs. He searched fruitlessly for his possessions he'd left down the night before. Though he searched all around, there was nothing to be found. Just when he lowered his head in defeat, a large shadow emerged from the kitchen. “Aye up their kid, you'll be wanting something to eat now?” Still at loss, Markus did not turn to him. “Oh? Ah yes please.” “Well, we ain't got much. We'll be leavin' in an hour or two, or so your friend says.” “Oh, that'll... what?” Markus now turned to him, seeing the barkeeper beginning to munch on a green apple. “Yeah, that fruitcake said we could come with you.” Without any further interest, Markus stormed out the front door and searched once more, this time for Dyarl. “Jason! Jason! You bastard!” he yelled. And, with enough noise, he flushed out the cheery companion. “I can't hear you Sir, you're going have to speak louder.” Markus ran straight up to with a stomp like a bull, and came so close that Dyarl moved back to avoid the headbutt. “Why did you tell the Barkeeper and his wife could come with us!” Markus tried to ring his hands around Dyarl's neck. “Well because Sir, as a Knight, protection of the citizenship is a duty, and since they were planning on fleeing, we should help them. And don't worry, they know nothing about us rememb-” “Oh yes! To protect them from all them Garollens who'll be swarming the countryside the second the snow melts. Yeah, them Garollens who'd be looking for them people, and would show no mercy to anyone with them. Now who were those people again? Oh yeah, Jason Dyarl and Markus Horuston, we'll protect them from that mess indeed.” Markus made the most ludicrous hand movements to make sure the message was sent loud and clear. “I'm aware of that Sir, but no need to worry, they'll helps us out with that.” “Please stop calling me tha-” Markus blanked out, as if the sentence could not be comprehended. “Jason, please tell me that you did ask that group of Northerners to come.” “Don't be foolish Sir, I'd never ask Northerners to help us. Me and that woman merely agreed that since we're all heading south, that travelling together would help... and I also agreed that we'd speak with the Bremoean so that they wouldn't get arrested by them.” Markus curled down on to the ground, and repeatedly banged his head on the thinning snow. “I never thought I'd die like this.” “No time for this dilly dally Sir, we leave within the hour. Your equipment in on the table next to the stairs.” Markus dragged his corpse off the ground, and threw it back into the inn. Then, two large bag flew out, landing at the toes of an unfazed Dyarl. The barkeeper followed the example of his bags, and rushed towards Dyarl. “Aye there, I got my thing all pack.” “Essentials I said, essentials.” “And nothing but. Lets see now: food, water, tent, blankets, bandages, spare clothes, hiking boots, knives, forks, spoons, a few plates, hunting trophies, razors, cloth, a map, and so on.” “I doubt we'll be needing 'so on'. Well I suppose, but only if you carry both of them.” “Not a problem there Mister Dyarl,” he looked back to the doorway. “You got yourself ready yet dear?” His wife then followed out. She was shorter, with two long brunette braids, large blue eyes and a small smile. Wearing a long, furry white coat. She walked up to the pair softly, carrying single small bag. Dyarl was stunned, holding his jaw from dropping. “G-good to meet you young lady.” Though he thought only of how a fat, balding man like him could have wooed such a beautiful woman. “I see Mister Dyarl, that you're pretty impressed by her. Well, I've got my ways.” Dyarl didn't ask, he didn't want to know. Markus returned outside, this time with his armour worn and weapon in hand. “Okay, we're all ready to set off?” He inspected the Barkeeper's wife, and then dragged Dyarl away for a private conversation. “Is that his wife?” he whispered. “It would seem so Sir.” They both stared back at the couple for a moment. “I suppose... he must be a wealthy landlord or something.” “He doesn't look it, but he must be.” “Let's not waste any time to find out.” “Fine with me.” At that point, there were three in the group. The scruffy Northerner had hooked his crooked smile into the talk, with the other two right behind him. “Oi, we're ready to move!” he blasted them back with his point blank shout. Markus wandered towards the buildings to ignore them, and Dyarl moved back to the barkeeper and his wife. The woman followed behind him, leaving the last Northerner to wobble in his hangover. Dyarl turned his attention back to the woman. “Are you and your friends ready?” “Yeah, but they ain't my friends, I doubt I could even call them companions.” Dyarl glanced at the two young men who fooled around in the distance. “I understand,” he said. He went over to Markus. “And are ready Sir?” “Yeah!” Markus casually strode back towards them, stretching is arms outwards. He now stood in front of Dyarl, who awaited the next words. “We should, we have to reach Antabis by tomorrow.” “No worries Sir, I've planned the route, we head south west through the Fayiron district moors, resting at Heilis. Then, following the dirt paths, we will reach Antabis. The snow has given us the head start on Garollen, and Heilis is rather small and out of the way. I doubt they'll be looking there first. But we may have to disguise ourselves near Antabis, but the Northerners have spare clothes we can use.” “I see, nice job there Jason.” He turned to the rest of the group, who had gathered up. “Okay everyone, we'll be moving on any-” “Oh honey, you never told me we'd be going with Northerners.” the barkeeper's wife had interrupted in despair. Her husband put his arm on her shoulder. “Don't worry, if they do anything bad, or even look at you funny, I'll make them regret it.” he reassured her. His face drooped when he realised what important thing he had forgotten. “Ah, Mister Dyarl, we've been such fools, forgetting to introduce ourselves.” But, before they continued, Markus, annoyed by the interruption, hurried them. “We ain't got time for this, we need to be going, now!” A hand flew out and whacked him over the head. “Come now Sir, we have time for a quick naming.” He smiled to the dumbfounded couple and bowed, “Please good citizens, do go on.” “Thank you Mister Dyarl. Well, I'm Gerald, Gerald Humenve.” “Oh, and I am Henrietta Humenve. Pleasure to meet you good Sirs.” “And it is a great pleasure to meet the both of you, Mister and Mrs Humenve,” Dyarl Smiled back warmly. Markus rolled his eyes, rubbing the bruise on his head. “Yes, it's nice to meet you, but we really need to be moving.” “Well Sir, despite your rudeness, we shall be on our way now.” And so, the four of them began to head for the town gates, leaving a bunch of nearly non existent Northerners behind. The scruffy one clenched his fists and scraped his teeth until he exploded. “Hey! Ain't you gonna ask our names or somethin'!” But only Markus turned back to them, and with a forced smile he dealt a blow to the three of them. “That's not needed, I'd recognise dirt anytime. So hurry up, we're leaving,” he taunted. The young scruff reached for the sword on his waist in a fit of rage, but a slender hand ensnared his own to prevent the assault. “Don't bother, they'd slaughter you.” The woman didn't even look at him, but let go of his hand. “Yeah... but, you kno... fine.” He loosened his grip and surrendered to her. Without another word, the three Northerners followed the lead of Markus and Dyarl. The odd ball group soon reached the small gates of the town, two stone pillars that went no higher than Gerald. The hills ahead were still covered in waning snow that glistened in the clear sun and blue sky. Markus stared at the pebbles on the ground, his mind still weary with guilt, uncertainty and anger. He looked at the hills and the sky, and saw a shameful hope, still feeling as if he was in the tunnel, dark, cold and confined to follow the wall. But, conforming to his promise, he stepped forward, and soon he walked down the pebble path. “Wait up Sir!” Dyarl ran clumsily to catch up; with Gerald and Henrietta pleasantly strolling behind. The three disgruntled Northerners casually wandered further behind, with the scruff giving cursed looks to Markus and Dyarl. Markus concentrated his efforts on ignoring the raising cloud of smoke he knew was somewhere in the far distance. Feeling though it was trying to follow him, fearing that it's ghastly hand of shame would grasp him.

Please use the Feedback thread for any comments. The Scars of Tascera. Chapter One: Snowfall in Searan. Darkened clouds hovered over the valley where he stood, watching the bottom with his azure eyes in a gentle anticipation. The young man, in his black armour, stood strong against the harsh winds as if he didn't even notice, only his silver, ear length hair moved. The clouds above burst with snowfall and soon smothered the grass with frost, descending faster with each passing moment, until, as if out of nowhere, a blizzard engulfed the land. But the young man still stood blissfully with a wide, yet calming smile across his smooth face. Finally, his body loosened and his curved lips moved apart. He sighed softly and rested his forehead in the palm of his hand, playfully, but with a slight tone of impatience. Although it only fell for a minute or so, there was enough snow settled for him to hear the loud crackling of footsteps approaching from behind. “Morgan,” he called, turning his head, “you're late.” The man he called to was much different from himself. He was built larger, as was his black armour, and more gentleman-like with his slick back brown hair, and thick well groomed goatee. He was clearly older than the azure eyed man; his face was rough and full of experiences. Despite all signs of ware and age, his eyes blazed vigorously in fiery crimson. He proceeded to grin apologetically. “Aye, please do forgive me, most dreadful conditions further north,” he explained, “and you know how much I hate dragging myself though this stuff,” he continued, he made his displeasure viable by kicking the snow around him. The young man chuckled mockingly before diverting his eyes to the large bundle Morgan was carried in his arms. He had wrapped it in his red cloak. “Got something interestin' to show?” he asked, with feigned curiosity. Although Morgan sensed the real lack of interest, he answered anyway. “Ah yes, I found this up north a few hours ago, do come and see, it's most unusual.” He begun to unwrap a part of his fiery cloak from it. The young man walked towards Morgan and his mystery object; stopping when he saw a hand being unravelled, it was a lifeless grey with a feminine shape. “Now hold on!” he said, in confusion. “That's... your surprise? A corpse?” he objected, but he still kept that same smile on his face. “Couldn't you have jus-” “Now now! Who said anything about a corpse?” Morgan slyly interrupted. “This lass is living,” he continued to explain while he revealed her face. The young man took a few moments to inspect what was in front of him: she appeared to be no older than twenty, her skin was cold as stone, her long hair was ebony, and her eyes were softly closed. In fact, the only sign he could see of any life in her was a gentle breathing motion; even the snow that touched her face was powerless to melt. The young man's curiosity had perked slightly, but still did not express any concern for her. He turned his head back to the valley quickly to check for any change; but other than the snow that covered the grass, the trees, the road, and the bushes, nothing was different. “Very well, I'll play along. Who is she?” he asked, looking over his shoulder, “and more importantly, why do you choose to bother me with her?” Morgan inhaled a large breath of air, then started to tell his tale. “Well you see, I was travelling through the ol' woods near Kelfbrow to arrive here as soon as possible, since the letter you had sent was most insistent that I were to depart from my... business. So I was going through those woods since it was the qui-” he stopped suddenly, noticing the young man's eye raised eye brow. Although his this lips were still frozen in their smile, Morgan could sense the annoyance. “W-w-well as I was saying, I found this lass while I was at the edge of the woods. She was right there, wandering around naked like it was Solous on the South Coast. She didn't respond to any of my calls to her, and by the time I'd reached her, she'd gotten on the snow and went to sleep. And if that wasn't odd enou-” “So why did you drag her here?” he interrupted. “Because, it would be ungentleman-like of me to leave her, and since she's not waking up, I wanted to take her somewhere safe inside. However, I didn't want to be too late for this exciting moment you wrote to me about,” he continued to tell. “Speaking of which,” he said as he laid the girl; who was still wrapped in his cloak, softly on the snow, “it's time for your surprise. And I only hope I'll be as interested in it as you were in mine.” “Ah, finally! Time to get down to business!” the young man cheered, brushing the snow out of his silver hair. He moved back to where first stood, with Morgan in tow. “Down there,” he pointed into the right side of the valley bottom, “do you see it?” Precisely after he pointed, countless rows of men could be seen marching through the valley. They carried lances, shields and armour. From their viewpoint, they appeared as a brownish grey mass, slugging its way across the blanket of snow. A small squadron of long, scaled, winged beasts flew slowly just above the mass, each one being rode upon by an armoured knight sporting large spears. Morgan stroked his beard and pondered, staring at the banners being carried; which bore a large white lighting bolt upon a black and indigo patched fabric. “Looks to me like Lord Farner's legions. What ever is going on, it must be most serious if Lord Farner himself is overseeing this-” “Invasion, correct.” “So he's finally acting against the alleged plots of the Rephall Pact?” Morgan wondered, his fiery eyes widened. “Well, I'd expect that's their public reason to do so; and yet with such... questionable evidence.” The young man said. Morgan gave a pained stare at him as if his pride had been injured. “N-now what are you saying? That it's some... some form of lie?” He stammered. “I've known His Majesty for a very long time, heck... since I was a young lad even, and I know one thing: he's an honest and wise man, and he wouldn't ever create such veils.” Morgan proclaimed in defence. “No no no, I'm not tryin' to say anything like that. I mean, for all the reasons he could have to make this decision I don't blame him; it's just,” Morgan sensed a huge change in his demeanour even though the calm smile never left the azure-eyed man's face, “I looked into it while you were away.” “A-a-and?” Morgan was desperate to know. After a short pause and breath, the man spoke again. “I couldn't find where the evidence came from, it's li-” “WHAT! YOU!” Morgan then halted, fully taking in the shock. “You were unable to find out it's origins? Then perhaps it is something we need to look into.” The young man nodded. “Yes, we will have to.” he remarked. His mood changed back to his calm self. “But first,” staring at the girl still in deep sleep. “Aye, back to Kelfbrow, for rest and a good meal... I hope; I mean as long as they can cook a good lamb 'n' mash down there.” Morgan licked his lips before picking up the girl to carry across his shoulder. “Not a moment to waste I suppose,” the azure-eyed man chuckled. The two men walked away back north. But then, Morgan stopped for a quick moment to check on the marching mass, which had now made it's way to the other end of the valley. “Karr, Varon.” He muttered under his breath before following behind the azure-eyed man to Kelfbrow, through the still thickening snow. As they disappeared, so did the snowfall. ~ “All men to their posts!” the guardsman yelled. The soldiers struggled to subdue the chaos set ablaze by news of a marching army approaching. “Archers to the bastions!” The soldiers ran all around: they collected weapons, stringed bows, donned helmets, and squabbled among themselves. “The forces of Garollen will arrive within the hour!” But despite the heat of stress, the frost of snow and the fear of death the men knew their place and after the chaos settled, they were ready for the coming battle. In the main corridor of the castle, all the men rushed franticly outside to the courtyard; all but one. He was tall and appeared to be healthy, in his mid twenties. His eyes were grey-blue with a stern stare, his hair was rough and short in a dark cooper. He was dressed in dark top and cream trousers, lightly covered by silvery grey plated armour around his shoulders, chest and waist with leather brown boots and gloves. His expression was different from that of them men around him; he was serious and stiff, he looked only ahead as if those around him where air and dust. He marched toward the large, decorated wooden doors of the royal throne room ahead. Inside, an ageing King in thick golden armour was finishing giving out his orders to his three loyal generals. “And finally, Sir Dyarl, you must command the front men in the front and call for the reserves when it is necessary,” he commanded to the tall, curly black haired man in a light blueish coat of armour who was stood somewhat casually but obediently listened. “I understand, Your Majesty,” he responded, without hesitation. And with that the three generals begun to exit, the other two being a shorter, brown moustached man clad in full covering red armour; and a tall blond woman in lighter white suit and a long black cape, all three stopped and bowed their heads to the man as he was entering before leaving to their posts for battle. The man walked further towards the throne, until he was in the middle of the majestic room flanked by large round stone pillars. The King marched towards him with his left hand stroking his beard, and firmly slapped his other hand upon the man shoulder. “It is good to see that you are ready,” he spoke with a loud, gritty voice. He took his hand out of his beard and clenching it hard. “Of course, I'd hate to waste all my talent after all,” he laughed, with a nervous tone. Though he soon remembered that he wanted to ask an important question. “Has mother gone to safety yet?” “Hours ago, she left for Bremoe with a group of civilians and guards. They took the passage out. I'm so sorry that she was unable to see you before she left, but it was imperative that we got them out before Garollen arrived.” “Thank goodness,” he breathed; yet with a flicker of worry in his eye, “we should get going I guess they need you after all.” The King noticed his anxiousness with sympathy. “Markus, there's no shame in being afraid, we all are deep down. But we should always be able to rely on each other, it should get you through it. But I have one favour to ask of you,” Markus raised his eyebrow, “if, by some chance things take a turn for the worst, I-I want you to escape through the passage.” Markus suddenly glared, infuriated. “It's just that, your mother was so sad to leave without being able to say a farewell to you, and it would break her dear heart if she were to never see you again.” He attempted to reason with this son. Markus looked to the floor for a while, thinking this favour through hard. “Very well, I promise,” he swore oath; realising that he'd never forgive himself if he harmed his own mother in such a way. There was a dead silence for a short moment before they both headed to the exit for the battle to come. ~ On the thick snow a good distance from the castle walls the Garollen forces. Though worn out by the long trek, they were organised into new rows and attack positions; they held their pikes upwards in a field of jagged metal. The valley they marched through almost invisible in white snow and fog. In command of this vast force, was the famed strategist and general: Lord Karr Farner, riding upon a battle stallion who's body made the snow around look like sand. He was an ageing man with short faded golden hair and a small beard on his strong chin, numerous shallow wrinkles below his eyes and round his mouth. His eyes were dark with a piercing gaze that was not ravaged by time. He wore a dark red suit of armour covered by and large indigo cloak and two large round silver pauldrons. He had a powerful presence that could be felt by anyone who even turned their eyes to him, and had a straight gentleman posture. His face was calm and focused on only the task ahead. He rode up and down inspecting the rows of battle ready men, stopping when he saw someone calling to him. “Lord Farner! Lord Farner!” the soldier yelled. Karr looked at him, and gave a soft smile in recognition. “All footmen are ready to attack on your order Sir. We await your command.” the soldier bowed. “Excellent, good work.” Karr then turned his attention upwards. He placed his arm up in the air and held up three fingers in signal. One of he winged lizards which hovered above descended and unsteadily landed next to Karr's horse. “Yeah Sir?” the rider asked; his voice was relaxed. He was a young, and strong built man with long straight red hair, slim chestnut eyes and smugly curved lips; his eyebrows and forehead were covered by a large white headband. He wore light, streamlined green armour, and he held a large lance in his left hand. “Captain Ryvor, are you and your riders prepared?” “Naturally Sir, the 26th Squad was born ready.” he responded, earning him a raised eyebrow from his superior. “Er...we... very good then, get your squadron into position and move when I give the signal, understand?” Karr continued to order while itching the back of his head. Ryvor gave a nod and a sly grin before flying back up to relay the commands. The six riders then flew high up into the sky till they had become invisible in the thick clouds. Karr turned his attention back towards the target and his footmen. He proceeded to give a single command. “All front line soldiers, stand still and look ready.” Although many were baffled by this order, they strictly followed and stood still in wait. The proud general rode off to another group of troops stood in a triangle formation at the rear, these men were different from the rest, their armour and spears were ornate; with gold leaf patterns on their chests and silver horned helmets. Two men in large hooded blood red robes greeted him with a bow and blessing. “You have both practised your task, and are both aware of your duty?” Farner asked, getting down from his white stallion. The left robed man clasped his hands together and bowed again. “Yes Lord Farner, we would never fail you Sir.” He assured, his voice had a pang of nervousness. “Erm... we can begin whenever you wish Lord Farner.” The right man added, in an attempt to please their master. “We shall perform it now.” Karr ordered, wasting no time in getting into his position; the two robed men glanced at each other in encouragement before getting to their own place. The three of them stood around the group of about twenty eight men, one stood at each side of the triangle; standing about ten meters away from each side. Farner performed a final check, and signaled to both of them. They proceeded to span their arms out as wide as possible, the air became filled with the soft sound of the incantation being spoken in perfect timing by the three of them. Break apart the flesh, and become as the spirits, Be boundless and everywhere. See the land of you desire and go find it, None shall bar your path there. Ride the lightning and winds through the sky, Be anywhere your eye could stare. Seventy Five, Pormatou's Wings. An amber light shone from the hands of the casters. These lights shot out in beams and connected with each other. It shone brighter and grew into a dome around the men, rippling and pulsing. The light climaxed and engulfed the men in it's brightness that lasted for a short while; it then disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving nothing but the three casters and fifty six foot prints in the snow. Farner took a moment to catch breath as he approached the the two red robed men who were knelt on the ground panting. Farner stared at them for a while, and soon burst out into clapping. “Excellent performance gentlemen. Just perfect. Would you two like to have a quick drink while we wait?” ~ The phenomenon of this spell did not go unseen by those in defence of the castle. The King himself in witness to the spell, stroked his beard in curiosity. The army of Garollen stood only a short distance away from the gates in silence, with shields in defence against archer fire. Nobody, not in the castle, or on the field made sound; both sides could hear the breathing of the other, and the wind whistling through the distant trees. The silence went on for what seemed like hours before a conversation somewhere, anyway broke out. “Did we come 'ere to battle, or just watch Farners silly hat tricks?” boasted the shorter general with the moustache. Everyone broke out in astonishment, the soldiers in the courtyard, the King, Dyarl, the blonde lady, Markus, the Garollen forces. Even Lord Farner spat his tea out; muttering. “My party trick are not silly, His Majesty would never lie to me like that.” “Lingbury!” Sir Dyarl cried out in fury, shaking his fist in resistance of the urge to clobber him. But before his is able to continue, a revelation struck him and shock surged through his body. “We're under attack! they're inside!” Within an instant horror and chaos ensnared the men. “We must assist the reserves!” Dyarl ordered in panic; but to no avail as the men were scared and confused. A small group of soldiers managed to organise themselves amongst the terror with Markus, and rushed themselves into the castle. The King, the only one not taken in by the shock, observed the frightened men racing up and down stone stairs, falling in the snow, shoving and pushing, crying in terror, dropping their weapons. “Enough!” he called, almost tearing his throat. The men froze. The King took a deep breath to recover. “All men back to their posts, will you die like men, or die as cowards?” The men looked down in shame; mustering the courage to stand firm in spite of the danger that loomed. Lingbury unwantedly opened his mouth once more. “I can't believe these men get some bloody worked up over that; not me though” he claimed; but the only reaction he got was Dyarl, who gave him a suspicious look. “That because you don't work at all.” he joked, calming himself down. “Someone needs to go with His Highness. Who knows what their up against.” “Perhaps you should go with some of yer men, j-just in case ye know. I'll let His Majesty know what's happening.” Lingbury said. Dyarl thanked him and went off to gather his men. Lingbury yawned before aimlessly wandering off. Markus and the randomised assortment of soldiers raced through the large stonewall corridors, taking numerous turns to the right and one to the left. When they finally reached the hall where the reserve men were preparing, they found nothing. Nothing but flesh and metal shredded like paper and drowned in a darkened red blood; a horrific sight of merciless gore, and what was responsible for this brutal act was no where to be seen or heard. The living minority stared in paralysis; Markus forced his eyes shut and turned away, desperately trying to focus. “We don't stand a chance against whoever did this, we need to get back out.” The command took a while to settle into the shocked soldiers, who eventually noticed and readied themselves for moving again. “We'll need to cover our backs, they could be anywhere.” He warned. So slowly, with eyes searching all around, the group backtracked on themselves. They gripped their spears tightly, including Markus who lead them at the front. Soon however, they could hear a quiet rumbling of many feet; but no one could tell from where it came from and continued on with more haste than before. The rumbling became louder and began to echo off the walls; the men were squirming with fear, and despite his efforts to calm them down, even Markus was more on his toes. The men had blessedly managed to reach a place where the corridor then forked, the passage to their right lead back outside, but the rumbling footsteps were surging out of the way straight ahead. Out of the candle lit shadows came the twenty eight Garollen soldiers, completely unscathed from their last battle, and with the blood of men still dripping from their spears and boots. Markus glared at them in anger and worry; and with the realisation of no escape, he bent his knees in stance. The elite Garollen forces wasted no further time on charging into battle; and were greeted by sturdy defences in equal numbers. Markus and his men moved back, overwhelmed by the relentless strength; but only to fight back with thrusting strikes that clash against the thick armour. There was a splatter of blood and the crashing of a helmet but no time for Markus to see whom it was that fell. He was slowly being pushed to his knees, blocking the attack with his spear in both hands. Markus gathered the strength to struggle the towering attacker off himself, using the small moment of the off guarding position of his foe to almost leap in a desperate attack. He struck at a gap in the side of his cuirass. The spear head smashed it's way through other side, impaling it's target destructively with squirts of blood projecting from both side of the wound and a sheik of pain that suddenly cut silent. Markus sighed in relief, dragging his spear from the chest of the falling corpse; reflecting on the strength of his thrusting. But, his victory was short lived when he discovered that many had fallen, and his comrades were less than half of the opposition who were still twenty strong. Markus and his men found the blood of their unfortunate at their heels but did not have time to fear as the Garollens charged again. Yet this time there was no push back; for what was left of the battered men countered in vengeance, as if the will of the fallen was still alive. And this time Markus was in no struggle, competently dodging what to him now was a sluggish attempt to strike; and with expert precision, lunged his spear head in through his side. But still their effort was not enough and they were down to their last four including the weary prince. They looked down to the pond of blood theirs would be joining and raised their spears for a final kill. The Garollens stepped forward slowly, savouring sweet victory to come. Suddenly, down the large stone corridor, Sir Dyarl and his knights rampaged and smashed the fifteenth men of Garollen upon the hard wall with honed strength at the edge of their swords. Those that survived the instant onslaught felt the swift yet brutal swipes of Dyarl's longsword; with only a single right hand on the hilt. Dyarl sighed as he stared at the blood on the edge of his blade. “It took forever to get that kind of shine,” he mumbled to himself, turning to Markus. “Sorry for my lateness Your Highness,” he apologised. Markus wiped the sweat off his forehead. “P-please Jason... it was my f-fault...I...” but his tongue was in knots. He sighed and loosened his muscles, rubbing his eyes with finger and thumb, “j-just take the last of my men to medical.” Trying to change the shameful subject. “And you Your Highness?” Dyarl inquired, backing away slightly. “There's no need for anything like that. What's going on outside?” changing subjects again; though Dyarl saw through Markus's attempts, he informed him anyway. “Nothings going on out there, but they'll make their move soon knowing that we're without backup, the reserve men are dead are they not?” “Yeah, we were too late to help them.” Markus answered, rubbing his eyes again. “W-we really should go back and help father.” “But Sir I really think you should rest,” Dyarl requested. “Goodness sake Jason!” Markus bursted out. “just... enough!” he rested his face into his palm. Dyarl stared at him; but was unsurprised by the outburst.“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you like that.” he finally calmed down. Dyarl stopped staring and reassured him. “It's okay Sir, perhaps you should rejoin the outside. But please, don't be too headstrong; it really is a worry sometimes you know.” He offered to let Markus walk ahead. Markus laughed, cheering up, and remembered the promise he made to his father and King. He scratched the back of his head to contemplate his answer to Dyarl. “Yeah, maybe your right there.” Dyarl was dumbfounded by his light conclusion; but accepted his answer nonetheless. He then began pointing his finger to signal to his knights to return outside with him and Markus. Both were uncomfortably becalmed. ~ Meanwhile, finishing his newly poured tea, Lord Farner was well rested and ready to proceed further. He closed his eyes and with his left hand he wrote a golden inscription in the air; opening his eyes again to see that nothing has happened. His two red robed assistants, sat side by side, pondered for a moment. “Perhaps they are dead: return spells fail to activate if the targets are dead Sir.” Farner turned to him, grumbling. “Don't tell me how these things work! After all, who is the Garollen Warlock?” he boasted, in proud vengeance. “My greatest apologies Sir, I should not of doubted your knowledge.” the right one pleaded, clasping his hands in respect. Farner tilted his head up in thought. “If their dead, they must have attracted too much attention to themselves... Elite Forces their called, tsk.” he groaned. “Well, along as they did their mission. We should continue with the siege of this shack these Searans call a castle.” He rose from his stool to exit the tent, he smiled at his men who were still following his order standing still. He looked up into the clouds above the stirring castle. He stretched out his right arm forward and with his index finger he wrote in the air again, this time however there was a fiery glow wherever his finger passed, quickly forming a symbol of flame inside a square. He then spoke a spell. Take this power and burn brightly, and burst into the air frightfully. Twenty five, Incendia cannon. These actions took mere seconds for the talented general. He raised his hand into the air with palm facing upwards. Energy danced on the palm for a split second, before instantly bursting and rocketing up as a furious and ferocious ball of fire. It travelled with haste to it's destination in the sky above before exploding into light who's shine was viable to all. Captain Ryvor and his squadron saw the explosion through the thick cloud and understood the signal without any doubt. They knew it was the time to make their move: so without wait they flew down out of the grey and into action; but not unnoticed as the blond general spotted their manoeuvre and called the archers into action. “All archers on the riders!” she commanded. They obeyed, with arrows aiming upwards. “Ready to dodge!” Ryvor warned his men on sight of the raised defences. The winged beasts bent their wings ready for sudden side move. Arrows were unleashed upon the foe. The riders jolted to the left; one fell with multiple blows to the wings and head, crashing hard into the snow and rolling over in his final breath. But the rest flew on in determination. They reached the wall, still in good numbers. The archers prepared more arrows for them. With the tug of a rope, Ryvor and his men released bungs from small barrels on their sides. They tilted upward above the castle wall, pouring a black sludge in their trail, blighting the wall and the archers on it. They finished by returning to the clouds before the archers recovered from the slimly assault. Confused, the men all look to each other, trying to wipe off the ooze that covered them with it's smothering reach. The King was not baffled; but completely aware of the odd strategy. “All men off the walls, now!” he cried. It was a vein effort; another spark of flames shot from the distance fired by the cunning general. The fires but kissed the tip of the wall, and all was set ablaze. The slime across the wall roared wildly into action, destroying everything it sat on. The archers, in the agony of flames, threw themselves off the wall into the snow; but the cold was not enough to save them from their bodies surrendering to the tormenting fires. The men in the courtyard stared on in shock and disgust. But their suffering was not over: the beasts from above descended once again. Without the threat of arrow fire, they landed at the castle gate which was now flailing flames all directions. They reach for the chains of the portcullis. Two of the beasts took a chain in their mouths and flew up, the metal grille rose up with them. The many men from the keep charged up to prevent their actions, rushing across the courtyard to reach them. They were not greeted by beasts, but by men. During the burning of the archers, the soldiers of Garollen were released from their stillness and had marched up to the entrance. Carefully, under the blazing arch, the soldiers entered the castle; treading on the remains of the burnt dead. They came to a halt, meeting face to face with Searans. There was yet more silence between the two forces standing off. The fires danced in wild celebration of the coming destruction; and smoke began to darken the skies, invoking hidden fear on both sides. This silence was broken by Karr, riding on his white stallion and calling his men to attack without hesitation. At that moment, Markus and Dyarl returned to see that carnage that had unfolded in their absence. Without second thought, they rushed to join their fellow men in the clash, drawing their weapons. After two successful tasks completed, Captain Ryvor indulged in combat on his mighty beast. Twirling his lance, he knocked down many with a single swing. He swung again, but this time, no one is connected this blow. Instead, the blond lady blocked it with her sword, looking at him in contempt of his crooked grin. “Searan dog!” he taunted, thrusting his lance with the full force of both man and beast. “Dead man.” she called, dodging both tooth and metal. With both hands, she stabbed her blade deep into the left shoulder of the An-wyrm; blood squirted down the blade edge. Ryvor cried hysterically at the sight of his partner injured. “Helen! Fly up!” With renewed strength, the An-wyrm freed herself from the woman's blade, and begun to hover. “So... your General Kray... hmph! You better hope you die 'ere, 'cause if I see you again.” He ran his finger across his throat, grinding his teeth with bitter rage. They retreated in humiliation of their easy defeat, the injured An-wyrm wobbling to one side with her wound. Both continued their cursing of her. ~ Without the reinforcement of the now dead reserves, things looked grim for the armies of Searan Without anywhere to run, they carried on with all effort. Markus was no exception, despite the promise he made to both father and kinsman he was determined to battle all he could; knocking down his foe and thrusting them dead with his spear, with the same gasp of pain from each one of them. Soon his boots were soon covered with both blood and ice. He looked around in search for his father, finding him in action, the old man was almost struggling to swing his large sword from fatigue. Markus, seeming distant from all else stared at his father. He look into his eyes, full of sorrow; yet wilful to hit the dead end with all his force. Eyes that presented one harsh, unbearable truth that passed his cold lips. “We...n-never stood a chance... did we father?” he gazed at him. “Was this really too much for us?” His panting father returned the stare with no denial on his pale face. Another Message was printed on his face, and the words echoed in Markus' mind. “Very well, I promise.” It made him ill deep down, even at the inevitable doom he couldn't shame himself. And yet, he was bound by his word, and had to accept his path. With much conflict, and a few more enemies dead, Markus headed inside for his escape. His father smiled at the sight of his son, and turned to the weary Sir Dyarl fighting by his side. “Sir Jason Dyarl, might I speak with you?” Dyarl did not speak, but made no objections either. “I wish to relieve of your service to me,” Dyarl's eyes widened in curiosity and shock “you are no longer my general,” he took a short pause keeping Dyarl is suspense, “you are now my son's advisor and partner.” “You Majesty... I... what do you mean?” The out of place conversation confused Dyarl, but his King ignored his question. “Well, what are you waiting for? Markus is leaving for Bremoe using the escape passage, and he won't get far without the help of this wise advisor.” he said, casually. Dyarl was confused beyond belief, but he could deny his King's orders. “I mean it, deep down he's a bit of a dimwit, he'd be lost with the help of his fellow men. Now go.” Dyarl obeyed the order without question, and hurried to follow his new employer. The King smiled again, ignoring the battle around him. He though to himself and laughed. “Markus... you're a stubborn fool, just like your father. May Etustir watch over you son.” He ended his fond pondering, and returned to the fateful bloodbath. The wooden door of the royal bed chambers smashed open. Markus barged in and began desperately searching for the hidden exit to escape. The stress and fatigue fogging his memory, he checked under the canopied bed; but found nothing apart from what would normally be embarrassing sights. He returned to his feet and swung his head around violently in his lost state. Wardrobes and bookshelves and paintings and anything could be concealing his freedom. “It's behind the right bookshelf ...Sir.” The familiar voice assisting him from behind. Markus turned to none other than Dyarl and became confused at his comrade being with him. “Erm... we should get a move on Sir, we need the biggest head start we can get.” “Jason? What are you doing? Shouldn't you be with My father?” “Not any more Sir. From now on, I guess I'm your... advisor.” he explained, still confused himself. “Erm, we really really should be on our way now Sir.” Although still without a clue to the odd situation, he did not question that advise. They each grabbed one end of the large bookshelf and shifted further to the right, then they ripped away the cream wallpaper to reveal a round brass door with five holes for fingers and thumb in the centre. Dyarl placed his own fingers in the correct holes, and began to turn the centre to unlock the code. Four clicks clockwise, then three counter clockwise, one the other way, and then six clicks counter clockwise again, he pulled the circular centre out a bit, then pressed it in again. There came a rumbling noise, and with a sudden jerk, the door rolled open, shaking the whole room. A sharp, frozen air filled their senses and possessed them both to shiver, for it was far colder in that room than it was outside. The darkened clouds surrounded the room where they looked into the dark corridor, the young prince directed his grey blue eyes deep into the tunnel; desperately trying to block out all fear and concern. His silver armour clanked as he slowly moved forward, still shivering from the sudden cold. The windows began to be attacked by the snow that once more fell. The room was filled with the sound of pattering snow and whistling winds. Closing his eyes tight, Markus ran into the tunnel with his companion Dyarl right behind. Then, Dyarl suddenly turned back; he dragged the bookshelf back to conceal the way and rolled the door back with the handle on the tunnels side, making a loud click as it locked, sealing their turn back. It was both cold and quiet in the pitch black tunnel, nothing but the echoes of footprints could be noticed. Guided by the hands across the rough wall, the two walked on into the nothingness.

Ah Goldeneye, the first game I ever played for the N64, and one game I'll forever remember: - Paint ball mode, check - Double all weapons. - Endless stream of fodder from a small door, check. Begin fun please.

Hector, Good defence, good attack, good axe, better personality than Pansywood.