Fantasy Fires In The Blizzard (Private)

Serene looks around the chamber and sighs. She taps her heel on the floor and thinks of ways to slip out of it without the guards noticing. She gets up and paces around it while worrying about Rowan.

Rats squealed in the dark, their fat, shadowed bodies skittering this way and that, fleeing a strange figure. The band of light preceding him shooed away the stifling darkness, but did little to vanquish the stench. Over one-hundred-fifty souls resided in Cedric's Stone-Manor, so it came as no surprise, though Rowan could do without the labyrinth of sewer tunnels.

The maps may have been outdated, or he simply took a wrong turn, or perhaps his senses were overcome by the aroma. Regardless, as he splashed through puddles of muck and rat carcasses, the King's quest was seeming more and more like mockery. Until he came across a section of wall, roughly eight by nine foot, covered with curious lettering in a foreign language. A clear sign, one he could eventually decipher, but what of? He'd need to translate, a painstaking process he held little patience for.

Even still, the irony of the situation was ripe. A man far more abhorrent than he, an undead spawn, had likely arrived by now, to demand the princess's hand in marriage ever-lasting. As if he could fathom what that truly meant..


"Your grace. May I present Ser Duncan Colliner, Guardian to the Chronicles of Crann the Wicked, Keeper of the Dark Reins, Heir to The Black-Spire."

"Lord to The Black-Spire now," the young lord's voice cut like polished steel, his lips curling smugly as the emissary retracted and gave him the floor. With proud steps and a confident (if discourteous) bow, Duncan Colliner stood in the sad strip of pale sunlight the throne room had to offer. Across his chest was the symbol of his home, a six-headed Hydra engulfed in dark flame, printed on battle-worn leather. His cloak was in tatters, dried blood spattered his boots and uniform, even a spot or two on his chin.

"Forgive my rough appearance, your grace." He held his arms aloft, as if to present an improper condition or disease. "Stamping out rebellious fires in The Marshlands of Jakob has its casualties.. A ruined cloak, for example."

"I'm gladdened to hear the whines of the east are silenced. I wish only you'd less struggle making it so." Frosted breath plumed from the King's throne and a lithe silhouette, a phantom man, shifted on the stone seat.

Duncan gripped the hilt of his sword, Woe-Slumber, a glittering blade with a wide T-guard and monstrous scores on the grip. An accompanying vigor rose in his gaze. "Hardly, your grace. To warrant the hand of your first daughter, no man living challenges my resolve."

"And that of your father's?"

A pause. "A terrible accident, one I shall not repeat- "

"Am I to expect you should repeat his misappropriation of the Colliner trust, then? Perhaps you too shall forsake your offering to the realm, gamble it all away, and leave your allies in darkness for a decade?" A fist slammed on the throne's armrest, echoing about the chamber and leaving a hairline crack in the stonework. No one dared move. "For all your triumph, you've a mountain of treasonous misdeeds to answer for, boy. Though not all your own, you will beckon all the same. Unless, of course, the Apperford Hole entices your lordship."

"Certainly not, your grace." Duncan bended knee, bowing his head subserviently. "If it is a question of my integrity, that of my legacy and house, and the legitimacy of my very authority? I will answer. My name is clean and true, wholly worthy of your trust, and none shall deny such truth from me." He raised up and nodded in acquiescence. "I accept whatever terms you present."

Cracked lips and pale skin creased, smiling as dark cerulean eyes took the measure of the young lord. A fluttering relish, nearly tangible and hardly disguised, conquered the King's countenance. "A feast, then."


"Not exactly what I'd had in mind..." Rowan muttered to no-one as he fiddled glanced between the map and the inscriptions. It was an epitaph belonging to the architect of the grounds, Lady Fryda, and her gang of discreet builders. Some sort of "back-door", it seemed. It begged the question of where the front-door was, and where path would take him. Most of all, how to open the damn thing.

After about a half-hour, Rowan had tried everything, including his vast strength. He'd resigned to march into the throne room and tear heads from shoulders, starting with Duncan. Then his gaze happened upon it, a disjointed pattern in the dirty stones that resembled his map. He re-positioned and pinned up the old parchment with nimble fingers, matching faded lined to carved edges, and click! Tiny stakes jutted from the wall's brickwork and through the map, tearing it apart as they rearranged and rumbled over themselves. A red sparkle danced through the etchings on the stone, forming an archway as it all came to a rest and silence.

A new passageway was before him, though he'd no way to manage or navigate it. But somewhere in the darkness ahead was the faintest heartbeat. And it was running away.


The center of the room rumbled ever so quietly, near the bend in the L-shaped lounger. The ceiling too, trembling all over, something threatening to unravel. Before Serene or her guard could react, burly stone pillars sunk from above and crashed to the floor all around her, forming a full circle and entrapping her. The Royal Guard clamored and struggled against the newly manifested prison, to free their princess. Serene would then witness as the center of the floor fell away and revealed a deep, dark chasm. What lay below was uncertain, though this may have been the only chance she got to escape.

Serene screams in fear and tries to find a way to escape. She looks around frantically and runs in one direction after lifting the front of her dress a little. She looks around frantically and asks "where am I?" She sees a torch and grabs it. She holds it up high and runs forward while holding onto the front of her dress.

Dashing. Gliding over the rancid dark water of the secret channels. A shadow that permeated over slimy stonework.

Rowan was moving at his top speed and had nearly closed the distance when the heartbeat and mortal it belonged to disappeared altogether. He'd arrived at a junction between steaming shutoff valves and two tunnels splintering into a series of chambers. Presumably it was here that most of castle's clean water was drawn, as opposed to the poorly maintained pipes he'd encountered in the sewers. This place served more of a purpose than just seclusion. He straightened out but didn't lower his guard, moving about the area. Trailing along one of the stone walls as he reached out with his heightened senses. Though it was pitch black and a light fog had settled at his ankles, he would see as if it were day. Whoever this was, they'd have no chance hiding from him now. Unless..

A sharp whistle cut through his thoughts, low like a dog's call. It sang through the dark towards him, and he turned in time to catch an arrow shaft. Glass head, green feathered, intricate workings of.. silver? The shaft lit aflame in his hand as the tip of it shattered and coated him with shards of hot glass and some sort of powder, lighter than air. In a moment of panic he dropped the arrow and breathed in, and breathed out his own blood. He stumbled back as his head began to swim and deja-vu struck him: this was a poison, the same he'd been administered earlier that day! Before he could dwell on it, a shape could be made out just ahead of him..

A figure wrapped in rags and masked behind something porcelain. In one hand, a scepter? More likely a blade. The other, a container of something bright, sailing through the air towards him. He zipped forwards and crashed into the steps of the bridged tunnels. The bottle shattered and flame snaked on the surface of the water, leaving this little platform as the only refuge. Rowan was granted only a moment's respite as the pattering of feet under a diving shadow drew him back in. He weaved under the initial overhead slash as the figure kicked off a wall and kept momentum to crash into him. With his claws out and fangs barred, they exchanged a mess of flurries and traded blows. More than a few times, his errant sense of space and dulling awareness left him open.

He reached for his blade on a backpedal, but a flash of the rag-foe's steel severed the sheath and sent it skittering into the fires. A counter to the chin left time for him to recall it but the command went ignored. How?..

A clawed grab at the neck, surprised with a false step into a leg sweep, raking his abdomen over a barbed weapon he hadn't seen, as he fell into the flaming waters. He manged to reach a hand deep into the rag-foe's cloak, and yanked them down with him. It was more fragile than he thought, ripping as the wearer within busted out and tuck-rolled through the flames. Every breath burned. Blood flowed heavily from his lips and nose. The world became a whirling red haze, lashing out and nipping his flesh as it desired. All he could see clearly was the leather-skinned pillar of an opponent before him, carving through fire with a star-trapped blade. The veins in his arms and hands bulged as he caught the blade. Its tip punctured his forehead and crimson dripped down into his eyes.

"Hrngh.. Who are you?!" He growled through gritted teeth, straining against the glittering blade and the repugnant stench of its wielder. He realized the struggle was pushing onto the back-foot and forcing his back to a wall. He hunched down and sprung up, launching off his feet and over the foe, landing just at the flank. He expected to swing around and take a head off its shoulders, but was met with a skewered gut instead. Instinctively he groped the sword, but it was yanked free and sliced his hands open. Before the two collided once more, a voice rang out. The princess?

The porcelain mask looked away, for only a moment. It was all he needed. Rowan dived across and snatched up his blade, before darting away into a tunnel. He drew the long blade and made a deep cut into the ceiling, and jerked. The stones behind him tumbled down as the tunnel collapsed in on itself, sealing him and his attacker apart.

"Rowan?.."

He faced her, then turned away. His pride was nearly as mangled as his body. But for her to see him like this, defeated.. He'd no time to sit with it. His world was fading fast and his body grew heavy. Blood pooled in the waters at his feet. Sheathing his blade and leaning on Serene, he pulled the now partly-charred map from his belt, and guided them as best he could. At last, they arrived on a slanted entryway, a backdoor feeding somewhere into the castle. Unless his nose has burned off, he assumed the sickly sweet stench belonged to the kitchens. They entered into a dark cellar with dusty wine barrels and crates of produce. He slumped against a wall, clutching Serene harder than he probably should have.

"Find one of.. your stewards. Someone.. you can trust. Find the King.. Be safe. I love you..." With that, he went limp and fell over, unconscious.

Serene places her hand on Rowan's cheek and says "I love you too." She runs to one of her stewards, leading them down to the cellar and says "take Rowan to a private room for care. I will stay with him."

One of the kitchen-staff, a fair-haired young lady in the midst of scrubbing plates and cutlery, glanced up from her post to notice a small but bloody commotion. A gaggle of handmaidens helped carry what looked to be a dead man from the cellars, followed by the princess herself. They hustled past the line-cooks and flame-pits, the cold-wells and chopping stations, and vanished up into the lower sections of the palace. She was left so kidnapped out of her current duties, that the only thing to break her puzzled trance was an errant tea plate crashing to the clay-tiled floor. Many of the others took notice and spoke amongst themselves, and before long, the better half of the palace would know their little secret.

In a dark and neglected wing of the guest's quarters, a heavy wooden door swings inwards to reveal a room hardly more accomadating than a prison cell. It had one bed with no sheets, a dirty cobbled floor, dusty end tables and lounge-chairs, and a basically-ancient trunk just near the door. Over the course of an hour, the maidens helped the princess tidy the room up and tend to Rowan's wounds, before hurrying back to their own duties. The princess would be left to ponder her own thoughts on the whole matter.

Certainly no one would think to come to this specific room looking for them, but how long could she hope to keep him hidden? Many mouths would whisper of this, and soon there would be a search, namely for her. And to forget, she was to be meeting with Lord Duncan who'd just arrived today, and to attend the feast the king had called for! Where to begin, and what to choose-- remaining with Rowan until he woke, or leaving to draw away the hunt and attend her duties as a distraction?

Serene places her hand on Rowan's cheek and says "I'm not leaving you. I don't care about meeting Lord Duncan. I want to be with you, not him." She kisses him and sits on a chair, holding his hand.