“PROTECT THE KING!”
The words rang hollowly in his ears, but Lt. Platts felt his body reacting to them. His legs were pumping, his right hand drawing the longsword from its sheath at his side. He had reached the first step of the dais when he felt intense heat behind him and to the right. There were screams of agony, battle cries, the sounds of more steel scraping from scabbards or crashing to the ground, and above all, the great whooshing roar of flames bursting amoungst his men. Continue reading →
The King was looking decidedly nervous.
The Fifth Wizard was peering up at the man from his ceremonial position on the dais. He could hardly blame the young king. He was only 25, after all, and headstrong. The lad had been trying to assert his independence since he was as tall as his father’s knee, but the old King Delimar had been a man of peace, a diplomat, filled with stoic reserve. The young prince’s rambunctiousness – his disinterest in his studies and his boredom at the day-to-day run of the realm – had been incomprehensible to the steady patriarch. Since his father’s death, the King Steven had always seemed decidedly uncomfortable in his crown, surrounded as he was by his father’s men, each of them acting just as they had in his father’s time. Old cobweb-addled minds, the lot of them. Continue reading →
There was a gentle rap at the door. Cornelius Noomid looked up from the scroll before him, frowning. He thought he’d kept his shopfront locked this morning. Perhaps he’d forgotten to lock it the night before. With a shrug, he called for whomever was beyond to enter, and be quick about it. The door opened, and a tall, slim young man, adorned in gaudy raiment including a simply preposterous hat proclaiming him a “Wizurd” stepped lightly though, peering about the room slightly disinterestedly.
“Good day, Master. The Princess has arrived.”