Hello! Feels like it’s been a good long while since I sat down to write something. That’s not for lack of trying, of course; it’s that the trying doesn’t translate into Something, which is deeply frustrating, tiresome, and, frankly, embarrassing. (Thanks ADHD.)
I’m working on figuring out a new med dosage to see if that helps the practical drive to create return, but in the meantime, I thought I’d look back over things buried in my draft docs. Luckily, I found something from half an idea I’ve dropped and picked up a few times over the years.
This is a totally raw snippet, not fully edited, and I don’t even really have a clue where it was leading - but I’ve always had the faraway dream of doing some truly ridiculous world-building with high fantasy names, and a plot that spans several novels. Who knows? Maybe this’ll make it there someday. Hope you enjoy.
In the deep recesses of the dimly candlelit hall, on the edge of the dark, murmuring throng, Roian of Blackwood watched all comings and goings with hooded eyes. He was a picture of unstudied elegance; hands in pockets, a slow, deliberate gaze, and a slant to his mouth that belied either cruelty or amusement. A curl or two of blonde hair cut across his brow, adding to the shadows wreathing his face, and every so often he would reach up and brush it away. In the corner of his eye he kept the sight of the grand throne.
Any moment now, the Duke would step out to announce the fate of the king, and tonight would be the night everything changed - if the old bastard actually had the decency to die.
The king was as far past his prime as anyone could possibly be - and for those who often lived for millennia, that was saying something. It was common enough to see in Amaris, where rulers regularly aged beyond their good reason and spirit to succeed and have their people thrive; in the twilight lands, where a misstep in court could mean a slit throat or a spear through the heart, it was exceedingly rare. Helver - the “Destroyer”, they’d called him - had managed to remain alive through a mixture of deeply loyal advisors and a cunning gift for weaseling his way out of conflicts of war. His six children, four of whom had died in various skirmishes and years-long battles, had inherited their grandmother’s talent and skill for combat. It was a terrible shame that not a single one of them had any interest in ruling; still, Helver kept them at a distance, to mitigate the already slim chance they would get the urge to inherit the throne by murder.
Roian hadn’t even been a twinkle in his great grandmother’s eye when Helver spilt the old queen’s blood to claim the throne, but he’d been just about into his prime when the king’s corruption and disinterest in the actual act of ruling became clear. Countless years of zero competition for rule had led him to become lazy with power, and the realms were suffering for it. The council hadn’t undergone any significant change in dozens of decades; the inner circle remained comprised of the king’s closest allies and conspirators.
A light shiver whispered down his spine as someone sidled up to him, magical energy tickling along his senses in warning.
“It seems you’ve come out to play, after all,” Roian sighed lowly, eyes never ceasing their leisurely sweep along the crowd. A husky chuckle reached his ears, and he smiled in answer.
“You thought I’d miss this? As if anyone is staying home tonight, dear boy. I think I passed Countess Devine on my way in, and we both know she’s pushing her third millennia.”
Roian, finally content that he’d witnessed the last of the spectators to make an appearance, glanced to his right to acknowledge his oldest friend.
Verine Greyhearth could best be described as danger in its most pleasant disguise. Full rosy cheeks, waves of long, gunmetal hair, and lush curves a goddess would cry over. Verine could even pass for a rather lovely and un-intimidating young woman, but for her eyes. Glittering and fathomless and incomprehensibly old, they had driven mad more than a few who were careless enough to challenge her. Her magical signature was large enough to blow up several planes of existence, which to some made her all the more alluring, and for others kept them further away. Roian could hardly think of anyone who knew exactly how old Verine was, but it was widely accepted that she had come into existence around the beginning of time and had been terrifying all beings alike since then. Why she deigned to spend her time with anyone at all instead of conquering the realms was a mystery, but Roian was glad she did.
“I forgot how much you enjoyed court intrigue,” Roian murmured thoughtfully, flicking his gaze over the aforementioned countess, who did indeed look well into her three-thousands. The wavering light deepened and twisted every crevice and gnarl on her face, and the open skin on display by her plunging neckline.
“Yes, well. As long as something interesting happens, I’ll make sure to stick around for the bloodshed. If not, there’s another event I’m to attend.” Verine looked amused for a moment, before sobering. “Besides, we’re all fucked if the old man doesn’t do us all a favour and die. He’s been holding on to the tatters of this life for too long and he’s doing an absolute shit job of keeping it together. Also, if Meryl doesn’t try for the throne after the announcement, I’ll eat my fucking hat.”
“You’re not wearing a hat.”
Verine scoffed. “I meant metaphorically, you prick.”
Just then, a rippling hush fell over the crowd to reach them, as all attention was drawn to the front of the hall. Duke Marek Etteren the Ninth, Keeper of Beasts, Lord of Easterlyn, Master of Reverie - more informally known as simply the Duke - stepped onto the center of the dais where the grand throne sat. Tall and angularly striking, the Duke had an arrogant cast to his features and a perpetual sneer that unfortunately did nothing to dim his attractiveness. Close-cropped black hair crowned him, dark and slick as an oil spill, and his deeply yellow-gold eyes were reluctantly intriguing.
Atop the dais, the Duke let the weight of the moment grow, the slight smug smirk on his lips letting everyone know he understood how much power he had then. Dramatic, pompous asshole, Roian thought, internally rolling his eyes. Verine’s elbow gleefully jabbed him in the side, as if she could hear his thoughts.
“Good evening to all present,” Marek began, voice rich and dark as thunder as it carried easily over the stillness. “I am here to inform you that the king, may his soul rest in everlasting peace among the halls of his great ancestors forever and ever, has passed.” A low whisper rushed through those closest to them, and Roian bit back a smirk at the unmasked relief he could hear in those sighs. Verine, entitled to irreverence due to her general and genuinely terrifying aura, grinned as widely as she could.
Marek let the chatter die down before continuing, clearly enjoying being at the center of the drama. “As is tradition, we ask all houses to send forth a candidate to vie for the throne. In a year’s passing, the tournament will commence, and a new liege will be crowned. Are we in accordance?”
A din of “Aye!” answered him.
“Each house has until the next full moon to deliberate. The naming shall take place in the Dardes Grove. Are we in accordance?” Another “Aye!” resounded.
“We are agreed. My lords, my ladies; I take my leave.” With one last lingering glance at those gathered, he departed with a flourish of his cape.