boo.
keep precious things
.
.
the crown unseen
「a name that means damned」
There was a part of Penn that didn't want to go near the prince. She had heard stories of his frightening appearance, how the Queen kept him hidden because of his horrid bestiality. They said he had six fingers on one hand and no nose at all - just pale skin stretched between eyes and mouth. And the eyes were supposed to be blood red and cavernous, able to peer within one's soul and bend it to his will.
Perhaps the Queen was giving her and the other three this task to ensure no one ever saw the prince. Not by killing him, no - but by forcing him out of the light of day. Although, in Penn’s opinion, the Queen had done an exemplary job of that already. No one she knew had seen him, and any tidbits about his appearance came through rumor. Penn knew she ought not to believe such things, but anything was possible.
Closing her eyes, Penn forced the thoughts from her mind. She concentrated on her hands instead, which stretched behind her head to braid the thick obsidian hair that hung down her back. The red paint on her face was still fresh, and she could feel the cold contrast burning slightly on her skin. Across her forehead, under her eyes, from her lip to her chin - this paint was a sacred part of the Royal Guard’s clothing ritual. Every small movement had a meaning, every article a memory that wasn't to be forgotten. The paint itself was the united pain and joy of leaving a family and joining a new one - from a young age, Penn and many others had trained here, taken from their mothers’ bosoms and given a new life in service of their city. More importantly, of the royal family.
Penn tied off the braid, which hung to the small of her back, and stood before grabbing the staff that leaned against the small table beside her. Her fingers danced across the black blade at the end, which was about an forearm’s length and sharper than any iron sword. It clicked satisfyingly onto the holder that was strapped on Penn's back. She looked ready for battle - perhaps it was more of a mental one than a bloody war.
The barracks were empty. Only three others accompanied Penn, everyone else being at their regular posts around the castle. They too were preparing for their audience and new positions, but who knew how they felt about this whole ordeal. Were they as apprehensive? Perhaps they possessed more intrigue than caution. Whatever they felt, none seemed to show it. Just as Penn, their faces were stony and neutral. They could deal with whatever came.
There was a horn call from the battlements outside - Penn could hear the low, true tone through the slitted windows high above her. It was the next guard change, which meant it was time to leave. Penn's hands brushed along the crimson swirls that decorated her black uniform as if to clear invisible specks from the stiff fabric. It fit her like a glove, but allowed a sure freedom of movement. Her steps were secure as she made her way to the stairwell at the far end of the barracks, falling into line with the other three.
She knew their names, but didn't really know them. At the front of the line was Bes - short black hair and brownish yellow eyes gave him the appearance of an eagle. He was a natural-born leader, and everyone knew it. He took the front of the line because no one dared take it from him. Second was Anai. Everyone knew her, with her sharp words and contoured face, framed by short locks of fiery red. Then came Ira, the worker. Good was never enough for him. He strive for perfection and took all risks to make himself better - no, best.
Perhaps she did know something about them - but nothing more than everyone else knew. They were faces in a crowd, just like Penn herself, nothing about them known but what they wanted others to know. Friendships within the Royal Guard were second to their actual duties, which meant everything fell under a work relationship. No one questioned it; certainly no one went against it.
The steps of the four echoed with a lonely reverberation as they climbed up the enclosed stone steps. There was a bit of moisture in the air, and Penn felt as though she could taste rain coming. Perhaps it was just the moist stairwell, but the skies had been cloudy all morning. Now, in the early afternoon, they had only grown darker.
After the stairs came twisting halls and passageways, the four finding their way through the memorized labyrinth until they were faced with another set of stairs. This time, they were narrowed and more concave, the walls seeming to press in before they reached the top once more. Before them was a round room with an oaken door at the opposite side; that would be the prince’s quarters.
Bes didn't seem to hesitate, leading the other three to the door, which he pushed open with a black-gloved hand. It opened silently, widening into a lavish, yet minimalistic room. Penn was given no time at all to examine it properly, for the sound of footsteps betrayed the presence of another around the wall to the right.
A black flowing cape embroidered with red was precursor to whoever it was, and the four dropped to their left knees in recognition. It was the prince; Penn hadn't yet seen his face. And she nor any of the others would dare to until given permission.
“Please… You have my trust.”
The voice was sweet and airy, spoken with dignity and polish. The words themselves were oddly chosen, but suggested that the speaker wished them to stand. As she rose, Penn looked upward, meeting the face of the prince.
At least, she thought she would meet it - but what she saw instead was a beaten iron crown encircling where the prince’s eyes should have been. It was a mockery, without question, for it displayed his status and simultaneously attracted attention to that which denied him proof of royal lineage. Penn felt herself shrink back in half-horror, half-shock. She could feel the others do the same. It mattered not, for he wouldn't be able to see it happen.
Bes spoke: “We come on behalf of the Queen's petition; we are to aid you in preparation of the Ceremony.”
The prince stiffened visibly. A thin lock of his pale blond hair fell untucked from his braid, but he brushed it aside with a skeletal hand.
“I am aware. The Queen sends her apologies; she was meant to greet you also. But her duties pulled her away.”
To Penn, the words sounded like a lie. The prince was trying to make himself feel better, but everyone there knew the truth. The Queen wanted nothing to do with him; his only purpose to her was the Ceremony.
Bes was silent, leaving the prince to speak once more. His lips quirked upward for a moment, and he folded his hands before him.
“Don't leave me to guess your identities. Please - give me your names and voices.”
Bes, of course, was first. “I am Bes. Being senior of the four, I will be managing here.”
“Ira. It is an honor to meet you at last.”
“They call me Anai.”
“I am Penn.”
As each spoke, the prince’s head tilted toward them as if recording their voices. At the last, he seemed satisfied and appeared to lower his shoulders a bit.
“Refer to me by my title, if you wish. But my mother calls me Ori.”
All four bobbed their heads, aware all too late that it meant nothing to Ori. Penn felt a sort of awkwardness pervade the atmosphere as the name finally attached to the prince. Ori - the name meant fated, although in a more negative sense. More like damned.
"I've never felt such a drive to uncover the hidden. No one can seem to recall what the Ceremony consists of; I can find no man or text that can describe it. How can an event so important to our culture be so vague? Everyone speaks of its coming, but I feel as though we are unprepared for what is to come.
"I spoke to one of the Elder Guards, the oldest I know, asking him about the Queen's Ceremony, but he said she had been ruling monarch his entire life. How can this be? She appears not a day over thirty."
Penn set her quill to the side, rubbing her cramping fingers in an effort to wear off the ink that stained them. She was in her small room that she had been moved to, just down the stairwell from the prince's own room. It was odd to have her own quarters, but she was grateful for the new privacy. The room was small and sparse, but a glass-paned window looked northward and over the walled city below. To have a view, and to have it all to herself - Penn couldn't be more pleased.
It was a few hours after sunset, the third she had seen after being moved from the barracks to the prince's tower. Her uniform had been folded and put away; now, she wore a simple black tunic and allowed her hair to be free from its former braided confines. Somehow, she didn't seem like the uptight, unfeeling guard she had been before. She was more... human.
Tucking away the small book beneath her mattress, Penn stood from the bed and paced to the window, putting up a hand to brush against the cold glass. She paused - there was a sound coming from outside that wasn't the wind against the stone. She unlatched the window and opened it a crack, tilting her head toward the night air to hear a sort of chanting, a sort of ancient tune. It was a voice that was singing, harmonizing with the sounds of the night. Who could that be at this time of night? The more Penn listened, the more she was captivated by the voice. It was soft, yet so strong and emotional. The words were spoken in the ancient language of the city Bauk-Larat, and Penn could manage to make out some of the phrasing. Something about forgotten - a forgotten script, perhaps.
If Penn were to pursue the voice's source, she would likely find it. But doing so would probably end the song - and something about it was sounding familiar.
1. Pursue the source of the voice.
2. Stay and listen.
Perhaps the Queen was giving her and the other three this task to ensure no one ever saw the prince. Not by killing him, no - but by forcing him out of the light of day. Although, in Penn’s opinion, the Queen had done an exemplary job of that already. No one she knew had seen him, and any tidbits about his appearance came through rumor. Penn knew she ought not to believe such things, but anything was possible.
Closing her eyes, Penn forced the thoughts from her mind. She concentrated on her hands instead, which stretched behind her head to braid the thick obsidian hair that hung down her back. The red paint on her face was still fresh, and she could feel the cold contrast burning slightly on her skin. Across her forehead, under her eyes, from her lip to her chin - this paint was a sacred part of the Royal Guard’s clothing ritual. Every small movement had a meaning, every article a memory that wasn't to be forgotten. The paint itself was the united pain and joy of leaving a family and joining a new one - from a young age, Penn and many others had trained here, taken from their mothers’ bosoms and given a new life in service of their city. More importantly, of the royal family.
Penn tied off the braid, which hung to the small of her back, and stood before grabbing the staff that leaned against the small table beside her. Her fingers danced across the black blade at the end, which was about an forearm’s length and sharper than any iron sword. It clicked satisfyingly onto the holder that was strapped on Penn's back. She looked ready for battle - perhaps it was more of a mental one than a bloody war.
The barracks were empty. Only three others accompanied Penn, everyone else being at their regular posts around the castle. They too were preparing for their audience and new positions, but who knew how they felt about this whole ordeal. Were they as apprehensive? Perhaps they possessed more intrigue than caution. Whatever they felt, none seemed to show it. Just as Penn, their faces were stony and neutral. They could deal with whatever came.
There was a horn call from the battlements outside - Penn could hear the low, true tone through the slitted windows high above her. It was the next guard change, which meant it was time to leave. Penn's hands brushed along the crimson swirls that decorated her black uniform as if to clear invisible specks from the stiff fabric. It fit her like a glove, but allowed a sure freedom of movement. Her steps were secure as she made her way to the stairwell at the far end of the barracks, falling into line with the other three.
She knew their names, but didn't really know them. At the front of the line was Bes - short black hair and brownish yellow eyes gave him the appearance of an eagle. He was a natural-born leader, and everyone knew it. He took the front of the line because no one dared take it from him. Second was Anai. Everyone knew her, with her sharp words and contoured face, framed by short locks of fiery red. Then came Ira, the worker. Good was never enough for him. He strive for perfection and took all risks to make himself better - no, best.
Perhaps she did know something about them - but nothing more than everyone else knew. They were faces in a crowd, just like Penn herself, nothing about them known but what they wanted others to know. Friendships within the Royal Guard were second to their actual duties, which meant everything fell under a work relationship. No one questioned it; certainly no one went against it.
The steps of the four echoed with a lonely reverberation as they climbed up the enclosed stone steps. There was a bit of moisture in the air, and Penn felt as though she could taste rain coming. Perhaps it was just the moist stairwell, but the skies had been cloudy all morning. Now, in the early afternoon, they had only grown darker.
After the stairs came twisting halls and passageways, the four finding their way through the memorized labyrinth until they were faced with another set of stairs. This time, they were narrowed and more concave, the walls seeming to press in before they reached the top once more. Before them was a round room with an oaken door at the opposite side; that would be the prince’s quarters.
Bes didn't seem to hesitate, leading the other three to the door, which he pushed open with a black-gloved hand. It opened silently, widening into a lavish, yet minimalistic room. Penn was given no time at all to examine it properly, for the sound of footsteps betrayed the presence of another around the wall to the right.
A black flowing cape embroidered with red was precursor to whoever it was, and the four dropped to their left knees in recognition. It was the prince; Penn hadn't yet seen his face. And she nor any of the others would dare to until given permission.
“Please… You have my trust.”
The voice was sweet and airy, spoken with dignity and polish. The words themselves were oddly chosen, but suggested that the speaker wished them to stand. As she rose, Penn looked upward, meeting the face of the prince.
At least, she thought she would meet it - but what she saw instead was a beaten iron crown encircling where the prince’s eyes should have been. It was a mockery, without question, for it displayed his status and simultaneously attracted attention to that which denied him proof of royal lineage. Penn felt herself shrink back in half-horror, half-shock. She could feel the others do the same. It mattered not, for he wouldn't be able to see it happen.
Bes spoke: “We come on behalf of the Queen's petition; we are to aid you in preparation of the Ceremony.”
The prince stiffened visibly. A thin lock of his pale blond hair fell untucked from his braid, but he brushed it aside with a skeletal hand.
“I am aware. The Queen sends her apologies; she was meant to greet you also. But her duties pulled her away.”
To Penn, the words sounded like a lie. The prince was trying to make himself feel better, but everyone there knew the truth. The Queen wanted nothing to do with him; his only purpose to her was the Ceremony.
Bes was silent, leaving the prince to speak once more. His lips quirked upward for a moment, and he folded his hands before him.
“Don't leave me to guess your identities. Please - give me your names and voices.”
Bes, of course, was first. “I am Bes. Being senior of the four, I will be managing here.”
“Ira. It is an honor to meet you at last.”
“They call me Anai.”
“I am Penn.”
As each spoke, the prince’s head tilted toward them as if recording their voices. At the last, he seemed satisfied and appeared to lower his shoulders a bit.
“Refer to me by my title, if you wish. But my mother calls me Ori.”
All four bobbed their heads, aware all too late that it meant nothing to Ori. Penn felt a sort of awkwardness pervade the atmosphere as the name finally attached to the prince. Ori - the name meant fated, although in a more negative sense. More like damned.
~~~
"I've never felt such a drive to uncover the hidden. No one can seem to recall what the Ceremony consists of; I can find no man or text that can describe it. How can an event so important to our culture be so vague? Everyone speaks of its coming, but I feel as though we are unprepared for what is to come.
"I spoke to one of the Elder Guards, the oldest I know, asking him about the Queen's Ceremony, but he said she had been ruling monarch his entire life. How can this be? She appears not a day over thirty."
Penn set her quill to the side, rubbing her cramping fingers in an effort to wear off the ink that stained them. She was in her small room that she had been moved to, just down the stairwell from the prince's own room. It was odd to have her own quarters, but she was grateful for the new privacy. The room was small and sparse, but a glass-paned window looked northward and over the walled city below. To have a view, and to have it all to herself - Penn couldn't be more pleased.
It was a few hours after sunset, the third she had seen after being moved from the barracks to the prince's tower. Her uniform had been folded and put away; now, she wore a simple black tunic and allowed her hair to be free from its former braided confines. Somehow, she didn't seem like the uptight, unfeeling guard she had been before. She was more... human.
Tucking away the small book beneath her mattress, Penn stood from the bed and paced to the window, putting up a hand to brush against the cold glass. She paused - there was a sound coming from outside that wasn't the wind against the stone. She unlatched the window and opened it a crack, tilting her head toward the night air to hear a sort of chanting, a sort of ancient tune. It was a voice that was singing, harmonizing with the sounds of the night. Who could that be at this time of night? The more Penn listened, the more she was captivated by the voice. It was soft, yet so strong and emotional. The words were spoken in the ancient language of the city Bauk-Larat, and Penn could manage to make out some of the phrasing. Something about forgotten - a forgotten script, perhaps.
If Penn were to pursue the voice's source, she would likely find it. But doing so would probably end the song - and something about it was sounding familiar.
1. Pursue the source of the voice.
2. Stay and listen.
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Night-Hawk
BloodWolfRising
izayoiix
Lekiel
Idea
GumGumChomp
S n o w
Night-Hawk
BloodWolfRising
izayoiix
Lekiel
Idea
GumGumChomp
S n o w