The Dark Prince 3

Having decided to not worry about his past until he had made up his mind made the journey through the passageway more comforting then anything else. The flames licked away the darkness and the path was relatively straight even though the cave appeared natural. Long before the torch ran out Asraphel reached the cave mouth. The cave exited from a hillside onto large grassy plains. It was dark again, but since there were no trees and the moon was almost full Asraphel just stood the torch in the ground and set off eastbound.

After about one more hour Asraphel hit a large road running from north to south. He realised that this was the reason he had headed east. The Kings Road was the major access route from the flat southern kingdom where he horses were bred and crop was cultivated to Kratis, the nations capitol. Hedgestone, the royal castle, stood south-west of Kratis. If he were to head south he'd pass hamlets every so often until he would hit the town of Lackster, where the southern tithes were collected and send north.

Apparently there was nothing wrong with his geography. He knew the lay of the land quite well. Estimating by the position of the moon it was still a few hours before midnight. Asraphel calculated his chances. If he were to head to Kratis he could possibly fade into the crowds and he'd have a good source of information to fill in the blanks he still had. However he'd undoubtedly run into members of the Almodarian Order, so he'd need a different cover and for now he had none. They were also possibly inclined to scout for him there. If he were to head south into the lowlands, he's stick out as a stranger, although his monk robes would protect him for some time. However, he couldn't stay anywhere for a lengthy period of time without drawing unwanted attention. He'd have time to come up with a plan though.

Choice made, the prince headed south on Kings Road. He thanked himself for the fact that he had chosen to keep his boots. He marched on through the night until dawn, feeling not the least bit tired after having been unconscious for at least a day. However when a far off rooster alerted him to sunrise, it also alerted him to thirst and hunger. He had passed several small houses so far, but he doubted they would look kindly upon a nightly visitor, even a follower of the pious path. Now that the world started to wake again he started looking around.

As luck would have it, the first thing he happened into was an inn. The prince drew his hood up, just because he wasn't sure how well he was known. He hoped his new beard and the scar made sure that he wasn't a figure to be recognised. With a knot in his stomach but with a smile on his face he entered the inn.

The inn wasn't too big, having only two long tables with benches in the common room. Two pedlars sat at the far end of the table, a third one still sleeping next to them. Littered elsewhere around the tables were six more farmers who had come in for an early breakfast. They clearly kept themselves far away from the people passing through, as a large invisible circle seemed to keep them away from the pedlars. Behind the bar stood a sturdy fellow with a gruff black beard and hair. Asraphel smiled warmly around the room and went straight to the bartender. A few looks passed into his direction, but they didn't linger. Good, no avoidance, no unwanted attention. As he reached the bar he nodded to the bartender and said:

"Blessings of the Divine upon you, noble labourer"

Although not entirely friendly, the bartender still nodded in return. Asraphel almost missed what the bartender replied, since he realised this was the first time he had heard his own voice. It was a lot lighter than he had expected, but it had a certain commanding feature to it. Very unlike a monk, but if the bartender had taken notice of it, he did not show it:

"And upon you, brother. Has rumour of Brans great generosity attracted yet another Almodarian? I swear, your order does more work around here than my staff"

From behind the counter the bartender took out a cleaning rag and a pitcher and started rubbing it clean. The prince was kind of off-put by that reply.

"If you do not require labour, I do carry some coin from a widow that had no food to spare. I cannot keep it, so perhaps you will take that in exchange for some food and drink?"

The barkeep raised an eyebrow:

"I always have labour available, brother. I was about to suggest my stables could require a hand since me stable-boy is ill, but I'll take hard coin over charity work any day".

Internally Asraphel cursed himself. He hadn't really wanted to spend his coin unnecessarily, but he couldn't really explain having it any other way. So he paid the bartender one and a half crown and in return got a plate with some cold cuts and half a pitcher of ale. The prince thanked the man, turned around and walked over to the pedlars. Although this would estrange him to the local population, he wasn't intent on staying long anyway. On top of that, the pedlars would carry news from one town to another, making them ideal conversation partners for his current condition. With another smile he started:

"Blessing of the Divine. May I join you?"

Although neither of the awake pedlars spoke, the one closest to him waved to the empty seat next to him. Asraphel folded his hands together and whispered a quick prayer, just for the show of things:

"Oh, Divine Pantheon, thank you for this bounty given. May the meek and poor flourish from my labours, as my labour flourishes from your gifts upon this earth".

Then he took a swig from the pitcher and a bite from a bit of stale bread. For a few minutes he just enjoyed his food and drink. The third merchant woke up and was brought some food and drink as well, but none of the trio seemed inclined to start up conversation. So Asraphel took it upon himself to start:

"So, fine merchants, whereto will todays journey take you?"

The two men across from the prince remained silent, however the one who had motioned him to sit was apparently enough in the mood for a conversation.

"We travel south from Kratis. We plan to visit every hamlet between here and Lackster, where we will stock up and join the spring market. And you, brother...?"

For the second time today Asraphel cursed himself. He was really lousy at lying. He hadn't even come up with a name and a story for himself yet. He took a swig from his ale to buy a little time and by the time he swallowed he finally had a good enough retort.

"Brother Lato. I myself am on a pilgrimage to the Lady's abbey"

"Ah yes, that's past even Lackster isn't it, somewhere in the Southern Range?"

"Indeed. So, what news from the big city, mister...?"

The pedlar seemed pleased enough with the answer and finally began to warm up a little bit to the newly fabricated brother Lato. After he introduced himself as Issom, he told a little about the new taxes, the rebuilding of the north after the very harsh winter and some royal gossip. There was nothing about an attack on the king. Either news hadn't leaked out yet or these pedlars had left after events had taken place. This still didn't give him a time frame, but at least he knew the hounds weren't about to show up on his trail. When Issom reached his last topic, Asraphel found it time to find out a little more.

"And has the king made any new interesting escapades?"

This question seemed to give Issom pause. He seemed slightly insulted by the question.

"King Razaphel is a just and fair ruler. He does not do 'escapades'!"

The rest of the meal continued in silence, leaving Asraphel to wonder how he knew prayers, geography and customs, but not the name of his own father.

the Dark Prince 2

For a few times Asraphel felt like he was teetering on the brink of conciousness, but across that border was nothing but pain and he quickly retracted back into the comfortable darkness. Then suddenly the fog seemed to lift and the pain was numbed down enough that he wasn't bothered by it. He sat up and looked into the face of a man. It was a hard face with a prominent jawline and a hooked nose. The hair was dishevelled and black, the eyes green and piercing. A small stubble featured on the fair skin, but a horrible scar from the right eyebrow down the side of the face split into what might become a beard once. Asraphel tried speaking to this man, but when the man opened his lips as well, he realised he was just looking at his own reflection.

Asraphel had sat up just besides a small pool, which lay completely calm in this small cave. He looked around him and saw the rock edges covered with moss. When he looked up, he saw a hole in the ceiling with bits of branch and leaves hanging out of the sides and a deep red light falling through it. A quick survey of his surrounding revealed there was something hidden under what appeared to be a blanket in the corner of the cave, as well as a dark passageway leading out of it. Asraphel tried to stand up and got his hand tangled in a piece of nodded rope.

Finally everything started to make a little bit of sense to him. What he had thought was a big badger hole in the side of a slope was actually a man-made entrance to a small cave. It had been covered with branches and leaves on top to hide it from view and a small knotted rope had serviced as a more subtle way of entrance. Judging by the secrecy, it was probably a smuggler hole or the stash for a band of thieves. He was tempted to find out what was under the blanket, but since he wasn't sure the red light was the sun setting or rising, he wanted to at least first look at what he looked like in case the light ran out. If he was to spend time in a body without memories, he at least wanted to know what the body looked like.

Walking over to the edge of the pool he surveyed his outfit. Asraphel appeared to be muscular and well build. Not too slender, but definitely not fat. His garb was composed out of a sturdy leather pants and armour, both dyed black, as well as brown boots and a dark blue shirt. On his armour was the symbol of a grey wolf howling at the moon. Upon closer inspection he noticed part of the wolf symbol had a cut through it and it wasn't until then he remembered the deep slash across his chest. He felt around the armour and noticed it had lost most of its integrity, but it was held together just because he was adding structure to it by wearing it. He took it off, followed by his equally torn and blood-soaked shirt, to inspect a wound that he was sure should have bled him to death. However, upon revealing the cut, it was nothing but a scar.

Asraphel was confused again. How had this scar healed so quickly? Even if he had been out for days, the blood loss should've done him in. It seemed inflamed, but besides that it was rather clean. He ran his hand across the scar on his face as well, and it was painful and raw. He suspected it had been caused by one of the branches during the night. Remembering the night brought back more confusing theories and useless meanderings. He quickly pushed them away, knowing he would need more information to reach an actual conclusion. He wasn't sure if he deserved to live yet, if he really was the horrible person he had been accused of being, but he determined then and there he would find out and pass judgement on himself later.

Finally Asraphel walked over to the blanket, which smelled of wet cat, and pulled it off whatever lay beneath. The blanket revealed a heavy oak chest with durable hinges. It would've been impossible to open, had it been locked, however if there had been a padlock on it, it had been removed. With a groan Asraphel threw back the heavy lid, finally able to rummage through the contents of the chest.

Inside he found several torches and a flint right away, as well as a dented but sturdy dagger. A small purse rattled as he picked it up and when he quickly poured the copper coins into his hand, he counted seven Crowns, as well as four half Crown pieces. Finally at the bottom of the chest he found some clothes, consisting out of wool socks, a belt, some sandals, flimsy pantaloons and a brown hemp robe. Upon closer inspection the robe contained the icon of a dark green cross. He knew this symbol belonged to the monks of St. Almodar, the patron of the poor and needy. Those monks often wandered the land after swearing vows of poverty. Then they helped everyone who needed something read, an extra pair of hands, an understanding ear or for those who were able to their medical services. In return they always found a bed and a hot meal at the end of the day.

Asraphel didn't even wonder how he knew all this anymore and quickly deduced that this was the survival kit for someone, for if they had to run. As a St. Almodar monk anyone could cross the land, provided they weren't beneath helping those who needed it and avoided those really in the order. He quickly put on the robe and belt, leaving the pants and sandals behind. He knew that would be a dent in his new disguise, but he didn't know how far he had to travel and his pants and boots were durable.

By striking the flint upon the blade he lid one of the torches, which he then wedged between two rocks. He added the flint to his pouch and then hung both it and the dagger to his belt. Finally he lifted up the torch and finally set into the dark passage that would lead away from this place.

the Dark Prince

"So, it has come to this. You come to murder me in the night, like a thief. You really think I have wronged you so?"

The sound came to his ears completely deformed as they were ringing and black spots plagued his vision. The pain on the back of his head indicated he had been hit and had hit the floor. A dark figure was looming over him. He tried to remember where he was and what he was doing, but he soon enough figured out he didn't even know who he was. The voice continued:

"That you try to murder your king is already a capital crime, for which only death is the punishment, but that you try to murder your father is a sin even death can't repent, Asraphel".

Finally focus came back and he could discern the figure in front of him. It appeared that they were in a bedroom, which looked quite well furbished. A few candles lid up the room, so the figure still remained half in shadows. However to Asraphel, for that surely was his name, could make him out clear enough after the darkness he just had to overcome. The man that stood in front of him was old, that is to be sure. His face looked like it was chiselled out of rough granite, both very sturdy and ancient in a way. Short stalks of pepper-grey hair sprung from the man his head from under a nightcap and seemed very much dishevelled. The night-robe was of a light blue, with golden stitches. Asraphel didn't even have to guess to say this man was royalty.

"I am so very sorry that I will have to kill you now, my son"

From behind his back, the king revealed a short sword and with a big overhead swing struck at Asraphel.  Asraphel crawled backwards and found a sword beneath his hands, which he drew up with the speed and power of adrenaline to deflect the blow. Because he was half prone, the sword got knocked out of his hands again and flew backward over his head. It however just deflected the kings sword enough to prevent a fatal blow to the neck. However the strike still carved deep into flesh of Asraphels chest, just between his left ribs. The howl of terror and pain startled the old king and he drew back a few paces, with a look of sorrow in his eyes. Asraphel, now seeing red spots, just starting running on instinct alone. He turned and sprinted, however behind him was nothing but a wall and a window with behind it utter darkness. With only his survival instinct operating he just jumped out of the window and plummeted down into the night

Asraphel only felt the giant fall and registered little else until he hit the water with an enormous splash. The new source of pain the impact caused, made him ignore the pain in his chest and on the back of his head. He scrambled to the surface and to the side of what appeared to be a lake around a castle. It seemed the castle stood on an island which was in the middle lake about three times its size. While clutching his side, Asraphel swam across the lake to the best of his abilities, while he heard the old king scream obscenities from the window. Guards took over and an alarm bell was rung.

When he finally reached the side, lights appeared behind almost all the castle windows. With one glance back, Asraphel just scrambled into the dark woods, his thoughts a complete mess.
He ran through the forest for a long time and everything in front of him was just shapes, with sometimes a sharp flash of pain as a branch hit him in his face. Besides that nothing existed but those thoughts and a throbbing that seemed to permeate his entire body. He felt like an empty lifeless husk, yet everything reminded him of how alive he was, while his feet pounded away to his ever vigilant heart.


Asraphel tried to recollect his thoughts, to remember things to make the puzzle in front of him less impossible. All he knew was his name and that he tried to murder his father, the king. That had to mean he was a prince of some sort, didn't it? He was amazed at the fact that he knew that much, with how little he knew about himself. He must've had a life before he had woken up on the floor, because how else would've had understood language or what a castle or a forest was? Yet in his head there was nothing but an relentless fog. The earliest recollection remained of a chiselled face, filled with both sadness and fury.


Finally he came back to a sort of reality when the sound of dogs barking echoed through the forest. Asraphel was out of breath and the throbbing had been replaced by just a complete existence of pain. Instinctively trying to get away from the sound he veered right. However, not before long the sound seemed to come from over there instead. After zigzagging a few more times, he realised the sound was actually coming closer from both sides. It seemed impossible to outrun those yapping demons hot on his trail.


Then he saw a small hole, just slightly bigger than a badger burrow. In a final act of desperation he tried to crawl through it. Somewhere he was yelling at himself for not keeping to running, but another part was reasoning that running wasn't working anyway and his body couldn't keep it up much longer. So he crawled onwards, deeper into the hole. Then, suddenly, the ground gave way and he fell for a second time today, even though it was a much shorter fall. However, he didn't fall into water, but was met with the hard ground instead. As the shock resounded to his system, whatever remaining conciousness he had disappeared.

Earl of Kentonshire (1)

This story is old. I was trying to improve writing, but I noticed that if I wrote something I liked, I got so caught up in it I lost track of the story myself. So I decided to write something that wasn't a page turner for me personally. It's a horrid romance novel. I haven't gotten much further than this, and I probably never will, but the blog needs some padding.

The rain descended over the lands of Kentonshire, coating the traitorous roads through the marshes with another layer of slick mud. The drenched mare beneath her strained its muscles to try to maintain a grip, all the while following the black stallion on the road before it. Mary brushed some wet blonde locks from her face, causing even more drops to run down her corset. It really didn’t matter to her, she was cold and drenched to the bone already, so a few more drops wouldn’t matter. It might even ease the strain from the corset that was on far too tight.

Hugh had insisted on her wearing this corset, and she knew exactly why, but she was in no position to oppose him or any plans he made. Since he was named the earl of Wendington, he had become insufferably arrogant and power hungry, even when they had been much closer in the past. Now her brother wanted to expand his power, and his friend Richard was perfect for that. Mary had never liked the plan and Hugh had taken note of this, and now he could catch two birds with one stone. She could hardly breathe, which was keeping her calm and meek, and it made her bosom look much more ample.

The girl would not have been surprised if she had been presented to Richard in just a corset, but luckily her brother had understood at least some comfort was required with women. Even though the third horse behind them was loaded with frivolous dresses she would’ve never picked out herself, she was allowed to wear leather pants, chaps and boots to make the trip at least somewhat comfortable. The cloak she wore offered some protection to dreaded weather,  but the light fabric was meant more for style then comfort.

Her bare chest was cold and numb, as were her hands and face, since they were exposed to the cold drops, but since the rain had started when they were only an hour away from Kenton, her brother had seen no need to change. Sadly the weather had changed the visibility of the road, and they had turned back several times from a seemingly good path that ended in a lake or bog. For three hours she had to endure the rain, but she did so with pride, even if it was just because she had little else she could do.

When they crossed the next knoll Hugh let out a small cry of joy, which was just enough when it reached Mary to get her out of her contemplations. The town of Kenton and its small keep lay in a valley, much deeper than the marches, but a clever drainage system of moats kept it dry. The three horses rode into the village, while Mary gave her brown mare a pat on the shoulder, causing the horse let out a content whinny. Since no-one tried to best this weather, Hugh and his sister rode though the large keep doors unto a dreary looking square unopposed.

When she saw the man standing in front of the double doors to the great halls, she lost what little breath she had. He was tall and slender, but muscled from working regularly. He wore a white shirt, that was obviously as drenched as their clothes, showing her the shadows of a few muscles she didn’t know men had. His oak brown hair stuck to the sides of his shaven face, which she studied in great detail. What she noted was that one of his eyebrows had a little scar across it, making it look like it was split in two. He had a square jaw line and his lips seemed fine lines, though they were obviously pale from the cold. By the time she wanted to study his brown eyes, she was once again disrupted from her thoughts by the voice of her brother.

“Will, good to see you! I take it Richard is in his study?”, said Hugh, although his tone of voice didn’t really match the enthusiasm of what he said. Panic struck Mary’s heart, because Hugh had named the man Will, which was not the man she came here to marry. She felt sad and dreary once more, although she hoped that Richard was at least a man like Will. She understood that Will was one of the servants here, because that was the tone of voice her brother had used.

Will indicated that Richard was indeed in the study, then stepped forward to help Mary off the horse. While Hugh slid off the horse with great ease, Mary was about to snip at Will that she could very well get off herself, but when he grasped her hand a warm shiver stopped her from speaking. She felt his warmth even through their drenched clothes as he slipped an arm around her waist and she was calmly lifted down. She pretended to stumble a bit, just so that she could lean forward and take in his scent. As she did so, her bosom accidentally graced his arm. He recoiled in shock, making her lose her balance instead of smelling this man. She quickly fell to the drenched soil, coating her with a thick layer of mud.

The Dark Visitor

I get plagued with random scenes in my head sometimes. There's a bigger story, but it's pretty much not writeable, but this scene sparked the inspiration for this blog.

The heavy wooden gates fell backwards onto the courtyard. As soon as the dust settled a creature stepped on top of the wood and strode forwards. Even though the courtyard was filled with guardsmen, the only sound came from a spotted grey mare standing at the start of the drawbridge behind the figure. The thing was shaped as a man, but was clearly not one. It wore robes that were not just black, but seemed to suck up the light instead. It seemed to wear boots, a tunic and pants of the same material. His gloves disguised what could be hands, but the pointed tips suggested that what was hidden were claws, as if the fact that the creature had just pushed down the gate without effort wasn't enough of a clue. The real give-away however was that in the shadow beneath the cap of the robes two red eyes lid up.

As the thing stepped off the other side of the fallen gate the guardsmen finally came in motion. They formed a wide circle and trained crossbows at the thing. They however did not fire. The red eyes flicked left and right, taking in every man. When the creature reached the centre of the circle of men, and the last ones closed in behind him, he finally stopped. Then a whisper started to come from the creature and quickly more whispers were added. After a few seconds it became one sound, as if all the whispers were added unto each other to form a full sentence:

"I come for Baron Stormraven"

The whispers died away, only to be replaced by whispers made by the men on the courtyard. It was promptly stopped as a door across from the gate opened and a pale, blonde man stepped out and walked towards the circle. Baron Stormraven's appearance was described in many poems, although the described 'fair' skin seemed a sickly white and his blonde locks were actually more like bleached straw. His vibrant blue tabard and the thick fur lining on top of his burgundy cloak were intended to make him look great and imposing, but they just made the contrast bigger. The Baron took up place amongst his men in the circle and looked at the thing. He called out:

"What brings you here, foul creature? Yonder mare belongs to my Sheriff. The punishment for stealing from my men is death". A short silence followed, until the first whisper formed from the creature. They formed words once again.

"The mare was ridden by a man who came to a village. His men started pillaging, until I stepped upon the square. I said I had claimed that village and that they should turn and leave. The man denied me and ordered his fellows to kill me. They hesitated, for they saw me for what I am. The Sheriff however did not. He rode his horse towards me, his sword drawn. So I claimed him as well". The creature reached inside its robes and drew something from them, which it threw at the feet of the Baron. Before that object had stopped rolling, the Baron had already seen it was the Sheriff's head.

"Who are you, that you dare claim my villages and men, dark figment?". The Baron's face was twisted in anger, as he drew his sword with a deadly hiss.

"I am what you claim I am. I am the Beast, I am the Dark One... I am Death and now I have come for you". The Baron slightly paled at this claim, however his stood his ground valiantly.

"Death does not claim the living until it is their time. Why, grim spectre, is it my time? I am in good health and my men are loyal, my enemies tremble in distant corners. You have no right to be here", the Baron spat.

"Your men, loyal? It is time to claim you, because of the fear your men showed. When the Sheriff had fallen, I had told them to leave again. However, they remained where they were, even with the one who ordered them around dead. There was something they feared more then this pillaging Sheriff. When I finally drew an answer from their lips, it was your name they spoke, Baron Stormraven. They were afraid of what you visit upon them if they fail. They fear that you will bring them to me.

"They say that things form to how they are used. The floor will show scrapes of the chairs that are moved upon it, taking their form. A sword will form more to the hand of its wielder, clothes will fit better with time. And so too is it with me. You have wielded me in the name of Justice, even if it was a false one, so Justice have I become. And now I am to visit this Justice upon YOU".

With this last loud whisper, the creature pointed to the Baron. As the echoes died away, the courtyard once again became silent.