Young Ralic returns it with a
smile more genuine than any he’s made in his life and takes the
blade. It positively surges with power, he feels, as though it’s
vibrating in his hand–or he could just be nervous. He pulls up the
blade from its sheath a moment to inspect it, and the brightness
and sharpness are unlike anything else he’s seen. It’s perfect,
this day is perfect, his wife is perfect, his life is
perfect, he is perfect.
With a strong, high wave and a glance
to his wife, he turns for the gates. Once the guards open them for
him, he is on his way out into the dark forest, feeling ready for
anything to come his way. Tenay follows him and looks over the wall
while the others go down to enjoy the traditional feast of the
hero’s departure.
But this time, unlike all the other times, there is a small stone
in the middle of the road, dug in not even an inch. It trips the
mighty hero, and he falls right onto his face, cutting it on
another rock further down. Tenay gasps, but knows she cannot let
herself be seen by him; his pride would be hurt. As much as she
likes to stick it to him, she knows his ego is very delicate when
it comes to this one, a single day in his life–the one that must go
without error.
Ralic pulls himself up from the dirt,
his face bleeding with a long gash across his cheek, a serious,
scarring injury–but he continues down the road as if nothing
happened. He can’t turn around now.
Hours pass through the dark fir wood,
and Ralic finally finds the dark lord’s ruined keep, but
something’s off. The matter is, it’s not a ruined keep at all. It’s
perfectly maintained and shining with long banners of the colors of
burgundy and gold, and etched, artisan stonework. The drawbridge
comes down for the scarred Ralic, and once he draws his sword,
he enters.
In the hallway, lavished in priceless
paintings and statues, he creeps forward with his blade in hand.
It’s silent; the bridge has shut behind him, and he can no longer
hear nature’s calls around him. He quiets his breath as he starts
up the foyer steps, going roundabout and leading up to a large set
of doors, carved with images of massive, deadly beasts–this must be
where the dark lord is.
He pushes open the doors, and at a
small round table there is an old man sipping wine next to a
cloaked figure, who in turn is next to a tall tearing of paper,
roughly shaped into the silhouette of a person. The ugly old man
begins weeping quietly the moment he sees the strapping Ralic step
into the room and point his sword forward.
“ Dark Overlord, I have come
to slay you with this blade and free my people!” he says, repeating
precisely what his father had him memorize over the years. The
cloaked figure, only its bright, glowing eyes visible underneath
the shadowy guise, breaks out into laughter. The figure smashes its
fist against the table, swoops the old man’s glass of wine right up
and shatters it against the floor. With one final guffaw, the
figure rubs its blacker–than–pitch face and sighs.
“ Just as I told you,” the
gravelly–voiced figure says to the old man, who is now beside
himself and sobbing loudly. Ralic readies his sword for the awaited
epic battle.
“ I suppose you’ve been
expecting me, but this is not a good time for you to have invited
guests, cur!” Ralic brandishes his blade to invite the Overlord
forward. The figure scoffs but keeps its eyes focused on the boy as
if there is something Ralic is about to do that interests
it.
“ Why yes,
I have been expecting you. I suppose you’re Ralic the
Twelfth, hero of that insignificant speck you call a town down the
road about an hour or two’s way. Is that right?”
“ That’s right, and now I’m
going to slay you and put an end to your dark designs for the next
twenty years, when you will then answer to Ralic the Thirteenth, my
so–”
“ Please, don’t,” the old man
says in a raspy voice to the figure. The figure shakes its
head.
“
smile more genuine than any he’s made in his life and takes the
blade. It positively surges with power, he feels, as though it’s
vibrating in his hand–or he could just be nervous. He pulls up the
blade from its sheath a moment to inspect it, and the brightness
and sharpness are unlike anything else he’s seen. It’s perfect,
this day is perfect, his wife is perfect, his life is
perfect, he is perfect.
With a strong, high wave and a glance
to his wife, he turns for the gates. Once the guards open them for
him, he is on his way out into the dark forest, feeling ready for
anything to come his way. Tenay follows him and looks over the wall
while the others go down to enjoy the traditional feast of the
hero’s departure.
But this time, unlike all the other times, there is a small stone
in the middle of the road, dug in not even an inch. It trips the
mighty hero, and he falls right onto his face, cutting it on
another rock further down. Tenay gasps, but knows she cannot let
herself be seen by him; his pride would be hurt. As much as she
likes to stick it to him, she knows his ego is very delicate when
it comes to this one, a single day in his life–the one that must go
without error.
Ralic pulls himself up from the dirt,
his face bleeding with a long gash across his cheek, a serious,
scarring injury–but he continues down the road as if nothing
happened. He can’t turn around now.
Hours pass through the dark fir wood,
and Ralic finally finds the dark lord’s ruined keep, but
something’s off. The matter is, it’s not a ruined keep at all. It’s
perfectly maintained and shining with long banners of the colors of
burgundy and gold, and etched, artisan stonework. The drawbridge
comes down for the scarred Ralic, and once he draws his sword,
he enters.
In the hallway, lavished in priceless
paintings and statues, he creeps forward with his blade in hand.
It’s silent; the bridge has shut behind him, and he can no longer
hear nature’s calls around him. He quiets his breath as he starts
up the foyer steps, going roundabout and leading up to a large set
of doors, carved with images of massive, deadly beasts–this must be
where the dark lord is.
He pushes open the doors, and at a
small round table there is an old man sipping wine next to a
cloaked figure, who in turn is next to a tall tearing of paper,
roughly shaped into the silhouette of a person. The ugly old man
begins weeping quietly the moment he sees the strapping Ralic step
into the room and point his sword forward.
“ Dark Overlord, I have come
to slay you with this blade and free my people!” he says, repeating
precisely what his father had him memorize over the years. The
cloaked figure, only its bright, glowing eyes visible underneath
the shadowy guise, breaks out into laughter. The figure smashes its
fist against the table, swoops the old man’s glass of wine right up
and shatters it against the floor. With one final guffaw, the
figure rubs its blacker–than–pitch face and sighs.
“ Just as I told you,” the
gravelly–voiced figure says to the old man, who is now beside
himself and sobbing loudly. Ralic readies his sword for the awaited
epic battle.
“ I suppose you’ve been
expecting me, but this is not a good time for you to have invited
guests, cur!” Ralic brandishes his blade to invite the Overlord
forward. The figure scoffs but keeps its eyes focused on the boy as
if there is something Ralic is about to do that interests
it.
“ Why yes,
I have been expecting you. I suppose you’re Ralic the
Twelfth, hero of that insignificant speck you call a town down the
road about an hour or two’s way. Is that right?”
“ That’s right, and now I’m
going to slay you and put an end to your dark designs for the next
twenty years, when you will then answer to Ralic the Thirteenth, my
so–”
“ Please, don’t,” the old man
says in a raspy voice to the figure. The figure shakes its
head.
“
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