I watched from the back of the shadows at the back of the hall as they sat on the thrones in the great hall of Windham. They were the light and the darkness of the hall, the lords of Windham.
To the left, still slim and pale haired, King Griffith wore courtly garb and beside him sat the gowned and immaculately coifed Queen Charlotte. He raised one hand to still the cheers of the crowd and began to speak, his silver tongue binding the assembled nobility and gentry to his will.
To the right was another figure, the Battle King of Midland, founder of the new dynasty that would rule alongside that which Griffith had wed into and made his own. Even now he wore plain armour that more befitted a common soldier - a man from the north, a man of great strength... a man king by his own hand. For an instant, our eyes met again and his dark eyes widened and then narrowed as he recognised me.
We both remembered another night, knee deep in a river, surrounded by wolves, swords in our hands. He had been naught but a boy. Now his scarred hand touched the naked blade that rested against the side of his throne, tracing the blocky script engraved into the side of the blade.
'Suffer no guilt, ye who wield this in the name of Crom'
I bowed to my hand to Gutts - black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand - and thought of another who had trod the jewelled thrones of the Earth beneath his sandalled feet. His father's blade had gone to one worthy of it.
D for Drakensis
You're only young once, but immaturity is forever.
To the left, still slim and pale haired, King Griffith wore courtly garb and beside him sat the gowned and immaculately coifed Queen Charlotte. He raised one hand to still the cheers of the crowd and began to speak, his silver tongue binding the assembled nobility and gentry to his will.
To the right was another figure, the Battle King of Midland, founder of the new dynasty that would rule alongside that which Griffith had wed into and made his own. Even now he wore plain armour that more befitted a common soldier - a man from the north, a man of great strength... a man king by his own hand. For an instant, our eyes met again and his dark eyes widened and then narrowed as he recognised me.
We both remembered another night, knee deep in a river, surrounded by wolves, swords in our hands. He had been naught but a boy. Now his scarred hand touched the naked blade that rested against the side of his throne, tracing the blocky script engraved into the side of the blade.
'Suffer no guilt, ye who wield this in the name of Crom'
I bowed to my hand to Gutts - black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand - and thought of another who had trod the jewelled thrones of the Earth beneath his sandalled feet. His father's blade had gone to one worthy of it.
D for Drakensis
You're only young once, but immaturity is forever.