05-14-2015, 08:44 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
Of course – the disasters. Eight forgets these even happened, really. They are just a drop in the proverbial pool of his life. It was a whisper on the horizon for him now – the charred and smoking remains, the melt drips of the Tundra, the lumbering wolves looking for a feast. They were all faded now, and the kingdoms were rebuilding- new life forming and the ripples of the devastation were diminishing away. Of course, the memories would always remain. There would be no erasing the great destruction of the kingdoms, the blatant wielding of the power that was Eight. The lands still wept with the memories of destruction – ash, melting glaciers, cragged gaps striking through the quaked terrain. With time, not magic, the lands would fully heal.
Eight is quiet, watching from the slinking, noon day shadows. He knew of Erebor – of course he did. Warship belonged to Eight. Both Warship and Straia, actually. They were chits in his pocket, prizes for a rainy day, aces up the sleeve. Straia owed a portion of her crown to Eight, the man who stepped forth and declared the woman now-Queen. And well, Warship- his life and death hung on the delicate balance of Eight’s wishes. Did little Erebor know that? Was he aware that the entire position he was in, he owed to the magician king? Of course not – the little prince was not old enough to dabble in such diplomatic ties just yet. Besides, best not frighten the progeny with the fact that his future clung so tightly to the dark magicians desires.
Still, Eight stays silent, watching the young prince approach. He knows another is coming, though. He can smell her in the air, the acrid snap of metallic blood, and hear her languid thoughts drifting through the air. Once she arrives, the spotted emissary (or glorified babysitter? Who’s to say), he prepares to approach. He appears with no valor or might, no dark brooding clouds or atmosphere – he simply walks out of thin air, his body slowly slipping through the portal of visible, and invisible.
“Erebor, Shaytan.” He approaches them at the border, his eyes flicking down to where their hooves toe the line between ‘neutral’ and the Valley. “Come on in. We don’t bite.” He half smiles, as the thrumming magical barrier surround the Valley materializes into a miniature, translucent electric blue wolf snout, teeth snapping harmlessly at their hocks. Eight steps to the side, turning his neck back towards the Valley in a “follow me” beckon. “A diplomatic visit, I assume? The ties that bind, and all that – holding alliances to stay true and making sure there’s no tricks up our sleeves over here?”
Eight is quiet, watching from the slinking, noon day shadows. He knew of Erebor – of course he did. Warship belonged to Eight. Both Warship and Straia, actually. They were chits in his pocket, prizes for a rainy day, aces up the sleeve. Straia owed a portion of her crown to Eight, the man who stepped forth and declared the woman now-Queen. And well, Warship- his life and death hung on the delicate balance of Eight’s wishes. Did little Erebor know that? Was he aware that the entire position he was in, he owed to the magician king? Of course not – the little prince was not old enough to dabble in such diplomatic ties just yet. Besides, best not frighten the progeny with the fact that his future clung so tightly to the dark magicians desires.
Still, Eight stays silent, watching the young prince approach. He knows another is coming, though. He can smell her in the air, the acrid snap of metallic blood, and hear her languid thoughts drifting through the air. Once she arrives, the spotted emissary (or glorified babysitter? Who’s to say), he prepares to approach. He appears with no valor or might, no dark brooding clouds or atmosphere – he simply walks out of thin air, his body slowly slipping through the portal of visible, and invisible.
“Erebor, Shaytan.” He approaches them at the border, his eyes flicking down to where their hooves toe the line between ‘neutral’ and the Valley. “Come on in. We don’t bite.” He half smiles, as the thrumming magical barrier surround the Valley materializes into a miniature, translucent electric blue wolf snout, teeth snapping harmlessly at their hocks. Eight steps to the side, turning his neck back towards the Valley in a “follow me” beckon. “A diplomatic visit, I assume? The ties that bind, and all that – holding alliances to stay true and making sure there’s no tricks up our sleeves over here?”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in