Nuranen Prologue and Ch1 (Edt)

Prologue</u>


A screech shook her from her musing, daydream smiles. The place stank awfully, musty with a scent similar to mare sweat and worsened considerably by the knowledge that it was in fact filthy prisoners and obese prison guards that were engaging in this attack on her senses. For a relatively new establishment, the rest of the Nuranen dungeon was no more appealing, especially to this beauty who had been born in nature and, for most of her twenty-eight years, lived from it. Her eyes, a deep, vivacious green, settled upon her surroundings, wild with the thought of enclosure, but casual with her settling arrogance. The walls were cracked, the doors splintered, the stairs creaky, and the prison bars already rusted due to the river rushing overhead. Tauntingly, it dribbled upon the imprisoned, this clear, clean water running from the mountains to the south, where the land of her people lay. There was pain riddled in that thought, and the young woman scrunched her nose childishly to ease the sudden stiffness in her chest, giving a sideways glance to the large man beside her, who twirled the heavy ring of dungeon keys around one great finger.

Behind her, the screech sounded again as the ungreased gate shut with a clamor, and a cruel grip resumed its position on her reddening arm. This man, the Queen's Royal Guard, had only recently been knighted for his unquestionable loyalty. He was a much younger man than some of the more capable soldiers she had encountered–and prematurely scarred in all manners as his early reward for partaking in the war with neighboring Chessie. In the faint lighting, she was surprised to find–and even more surprised that she would actually admit to herself–that he possessed a decent face, though he had lost his youthful smile quickly along their journey between the Nuranen Main Square and the dungeon floor.

"Keep your feet," he muttered angrily as she staggered on a broken sandal. The man's irritated towing did not aid the situation, but his behavior at least served to entertain her, unaffected fervor her only lasting defense. Typically, and in this case as well, when the knight glanced over his shoulder, a condescending smile was all he received in reply.  

Destin fixed his jaw, releasing a harsh breath from his nose in contained anger. "Very well, gypsy rogue, you may hold your tongue. It is the first remotely respectful thing you have managed thus far. But you had best find that tongue in my questioning, or you shall find it lost among the rat hoards." Threateningly, he paused in his step, jerking her closer to growl the last words between clenched teeth. "You will not make a mockery of me again. I know you are working with Chessie. Several from your tribe passed the border not long after you arrived."

An auburn brow lifted, black in the hovering darkness but flashing red at every creaking swing of the knight's lantern, counting the tense seconds that passed between them. "Forgive me," she answered after a moment in a low, round accent, pronouncing her words in the same language of seductive charm as her dances. This accent, however, all but faded with a tilt of her head and the accompanying sarcasm. "But I am still confused how it is that I shall find and lose my tongue all at once? Sir Destin, you amuse me, but I believe you fancy me far too much to remove my tongue in any case."

Without any room for increased dislike upon his features, nor witty words with which to combat the sprite, Destin was forced to simply turn on his heel, tugging the gypsy on again until she readily made a place for herself in the far, dark cell to which she had been escorted.

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The Gullible Blacksmith

Latharitan covered his mouth with a baggy shirt sleeve, coughing lightly. The cloth was stained a sooty gray from the day's work of smithing, accented by the pleasant existence of only one window in the two room house. Stifling his cough with the ratted material only offered him a sneeze to contend with. Latharitan sighed and rubbed his sore arms, patting up a cloud of soot about him, and while staring about the shop, a sudden stroke of depression rose to replace the weariness of his body.

None of this was in rare occurrence: for him to stop and glower about the small peasant home. Nudged up against the incomplete Nuranen gate, he often wondered whether or not the residence was indeed safer than the farm plots spread across the southern plains, organized so perfectly that the country surely resembled a chess board from the heavens. Latharitan preferred not to rough such land, despite its nearness to the capital. He considered himself, as did others, a very superstitious person in a land of many troubling myths, such as those of the Meru cat-people in the bog. In truth, he was more usually considered gullible by his Nuranen companions, and this was attributed accurately to the peasant's heritage from Faduz, the island chain just east of the Calinor Peninsula, only a few leagues off the coast of Nuranen itself in the Bay of Braim.

The Fadoze were known as notoriously for their belief in the fantastic as for their long names. Still, it could have been said even by the Fadoze that the peasant was a gullible young man. That could have been the reason that Latharitan Ecarius Cassibec, having migrated north from the previous Nuranen capital Fenikan, was easily persuaded by the graciously low price of his property into a swift purchase. Many others, however, had been keen enough to notice the rising hostilities between Nuranen and their northern neighbors and instead headed south to the mountains or off to islands like Dolloven, where the people were so commonly intoxicated and agreeable that they were rarely involved in the frequent conflicts in Calinor.

Latharitan's entire property was overly cozy, since ‘cozy’ seemed to be the proper term in optimistically describing the local dwellings. Even for a rather small young man, he found this to be the case, and with the sudden outbreak of war, the dwarfed house inside the gates was growing very costly. To even have enough to pay his taxes, he grew a variety of crops up to his very back wall with fresh seeds sent regularly by his condescending uncle in Fenikan, who lived a similarly tiring life balancing many trades. Farming left only the two rooms to split between sales and his actual occupation of weapon and armor forging. The smithing took up much of his bedroom's space and comfort, a table holding his anvil, mallets, sharpening tools, and lunch, and a furnace with a seething disposition. With poor soil as yet another hindrance, Latharitan often considered replacing the workspace outside before Fortune turned her blind eyes on him...again.

His thick leather gloves were tossed carelessly on the straw bed. The hefty layer of soot they left there was hardly noticeable, blending with the numerous shades of burned black decorating the straw and coarse blankets covering it. They were all singed on the lower edge of the bed, which had been his price for keeping it in the same room as a roaring fire. As often as the fire was roaring, many visitors claimed to mistake the humble shop as a mirage, the image warped by heat waves as it was. Nuranen was receiving a lot of visitors these days, between architects to build the new castle—most imported from Dolloven, since the gifted artisans of Chessie were not available for their enemies. Then there were the soldiers from throughout the country, come to defend the keep, and lately, there were the gypsies.


For as long as he could remember, the Kingdom Nuranen, in which he lived, had been at odds with its neighbor kingdoms, though more typically southern Heseta than Chessie, the present enemy to the north. He had heard it said that Nuranen had been faring relatively well in the battles waged over the last four decades, though he had only been present for the last ten and seven years. However, that was before the death of King Cenum. The late king had been loved far greater by the people than by his counselors, it seemed, because the tables had turned quite drastically in all aspects since his passing.

The king’s daughter, now Queen Morgan, had been hidden safely away in the mountains for a time to avoid her capture during a most uncertain period of the last war with Heseta, though none knew for certain how long her exile had been. No peasant had even ever laid eyes on her, and this was apparently also for her safety. It was apparent, though, at least to Latharitan, that she did not know much about war or ruling or that she had eagerly left such an ominous task to the eager counselors.

Within the year of her father's death, she had moved the country’s capital downstream ten leagues on the 'River Morgan' from old Fenikan to where Latharitan now lived. Fenikan had always been a city kind to the sight, with its lovely cobblestone streets and charming classical statuary. It was a city of light and festivities, music and cheerful fishermen who enjoyed chatting lightly on the fair southern weather. He had heard the city was relatively empty now, a quiet town with an aged, comfortable feel—yet stale with hesitance, anxiety, and nostalgia. With the new work required in Nuranen and the rise of war on a different front this time, the workers of Fenikan had gone their separate ways, leaving the inn keepers, brewers, barrel makers, shipwrights, and fishermen to their idle conversation.


Taking a broom from beside his bed, Latharitan began sweeping some of the sooty mess that littered the floor into a steadily growing pile in the corner. At the sound of footsteps in the main room, he sighed lightly, emerging from his dusty cave to greet the customer.

The man that entered was of an uncertain age. He had a stiff, stern and unshaved chin with a matching expression, all scrunched in a thin, chiseled face, but this disciplined stoicism was strongly countered by the long brown hair that framed his features in smoothing waves, despite being bound up with his belt. It appeared as if he had a crop of dark feathers at the back of his head. The sweltering weather would have been the advocate of such outlandish fashion, or was it reasonable outside yet? In addition, Latharitan recognized him by his loose leather leggings and the colorful vest that covered his lace up shirt, as well as by the mandolin that was slung over his shoulder. As forgetful as he was, Latharitan found it much easier to label the Hesetian gypsies by their instruments rather than names, though for the sake of business, he did his best to recall the odd title.

"Good day to you, sir," he said, running a hand through his own disheveled brown hair and covering it with a Phrygian cap to keep it from his eyes. "You are one of the gypsy dancers from the square, are you not? Indigo, I believe I heard them call you."

He nodded quietly, distracted some as he looked about the shop and wiped the sweat from his brow. It twitched with irritation as he seemed to suddenly perceive the heat. "Aye, Indigo. I come in place of Cerna today to fetch a sack of your potatoes, if I may." His curt words still managed to roll off his tongue, and he studied Latharitan.

A typical peasant, the blacksmith wore a long sleeve shirt covered by a dirty teal doublet, which was patched several times—and never in the same color. The boy stood only to the gypsy's shoulder, and his head was far too big for his body, round but flat faced- or perhaps it only appeared so because of a set of chipped buckteeth and a long, perked nose. Surely he would grow into the features eventually.

"Are you not rather young to be on your own, smith?" Indigo asked, glancing about casually, apparently unaware of what already appeared as rude behavior to Latharitan.

Still, though quite ruffled by this assumption, the young man answered as humbly and politely as he ever did. He could not, of course, condemn the Hesetian to starve simply for being ill-mannered. From his interaction with the Hesetians during the last war as a message runner, Latharitan supposed it was only their way. Culture in Calinor, his uncle had told him, varied from step to step, and it varied greatly. While his uncle attributed this to politics, however, Latharitan had no mind for following them and so instead decided it was only difficulty with a foreign tongue that now caused Indigo to come off crudely. "I am already a man, sir," he answered, rummaging through a barrel of potatoes and tossing his more sizeable into a sack. This supply soon dwindled, and he instead reverted to those sitting at the top of the equally dwindling pile. "I reached that age two years ago by the standards of the Fadoze, and earlier this year if one is to be based by the scale of Nuranens." He sighed, finding his unintentional irritation still shining through the masking words, and he softened them further.

"I know I am one of the few who continues to serve you since the edict, and do not think I haven't suffered for it." Tying off the top of the bag, he handed it to the gypsy, muttering an aside of apology for the poor crop. "Sooth, it would be in your best interest, I think, to make for Faduz and join the rest of your clan in Chessie. Cerna told me about them."

The gypsy only nodded, trinkets in his hair and ears chiming hollow jingles. He weighed the sack with an unreserved scowl. "We will move on in our own time."

"Well, do return when war is not in Nuranen, and surely people will not be so bitter. They are reminded of their old Hesetian enemies and fear treachery, I am sure. I enjoy your dances—conversation on Cerna's part. Yet I was very low not to see her today from my step. Is she ill?"

Now hesitant, having received what he came for, Indigo's dark eyes shifted to the side avoiding Latharitan's curious gaze. The lines at the side of his mouth deepened with his frown. "She was put in the dungeon for badgering the knights. They say it is for stealing and raising up the people in this treachery you say they fear. I do not know how she fares, or how to leave as they request and allow her, surely, to be stoned."

They both stood quietly for a moment before Indigo stepped lightly toward the door, his hand hesitating on the wooden handle. Latharitan knew what he surly wanted, had guessed early on in his explanation. The charges against Cerna were no invention, and Latharitan had suggested once, somewhat in jest, an improvement to her methods. But now he had to consider his options carefully: whether to act against his people for their betterment or to trust their mocking words and separate himself from these conspirators, who already had persuaded him far beyond a peasant's nonchalance.

"Indigo, wait…" A long pause, as he stood for a moment longer after halting him, but Latharitan then dashed quickly back to his smithy. The clatter of his rummaging through the dirty room could be heard through the doorway, and he reemerged in a puff of soot, holding a small key in his black hand.

"It's true what Cerna must have told you," the blacksmith whispered against the backdrop of calm crackling in the other room. "When I came here those years ago, I was largely given this land in return for helping to craft the dungeon cells and holdings." He handed over the key, releasing a worried sigh as he did so. "It’s the only copy I have, and it will only get you into the dungeon. Everything else is your own work. I want no part of it, but I shall pray to the faeries for you success."

Laughing heartily now, with all worry and age exempt from his tanned face, Indigo accepted the key. "Thank you, Latharitan! You shall be well remembered for this, little smith. Pray to the fae if you will, but have no fear that Cerna shall be safe by morning!"

Giving another sigh, of annoyance now, Latharitan shook his head and shooed the thin gypsy from his step. "Only to see a decent spectacle from time to time… and to pray there are truly fair intentions behind those smiles,” he considered as the traveler ran off to an enclosed circle of similarly clad characters. Setting the interruption aside in his thoughts, Latharitan resumed his work, attempting in the monotony of the hammer fall rhythm to push back the anticipation of tomorrow, when this last sword forged in Nuranen would sever him from the simple world he knew.


(conversation's a little more awkward than I remember )
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Chapter One</u>



The gypsies played violently in the square. The shrill cry of a violin, sailing above the harsh strumming of guitar, caused his anxious hands to shiver even in their hard grip on the leather hilt. Such passion should have snapped both finger and string, and yet the tune heaved on, a reckless trudge towards some unknown conclusion. The gaunt faces of the crowd tensed with the emotion emanating from the performers. Tightening the enclosure, they waved soiled hands and grimy coins. Gravel voices strained above the music, as two figures skidded in the rocks and mud themselves, adding their own apprehensive rhythm of clashing metal.

This song, the blacksmith knew, was meant for his ears alone. Yearning for the comfort of their presence, his umber eyes flicked from face to face, his ears refusing to aid his eyes to find the source of the untamed music. The flash of a skirt, orchid yellow alerted him at last, though his eyes continued to avoid the area—a spell of protection. Yes, they could easily persuade the people to favor them still, to toss their coins as they did now, littering the square with golden circles that shone in the noonday sun, but the gypsies did not reveal their faces.

A stiff jolt through his arm, his sword sang as it blocked his adversary’s blow again, and a box to the air returned him to the matters at hand. Latharitan staggered back from Destin to regain himself, holding an unfinished broadsword before him. A feigned lunge from the knight was enough to send the smaller man shuffling back over a trench, carved in their battlefield by a vegetable cart in yesterday’s rain. Kicking wildly in his prone position, Latharitan scooted to the barrier of the crowd, eyeing Destin uncertainly as the knight arrogantly cocked a brow and stuck his blade into the ground to lean upon.

“This man,” Destin heaved, catching his breath as he bobbed a gloved hand at the peasant, “is a traitor to your country, men.”

Riotous cries swept through the trusting crowd, as Latharitan jumped back from the angry circle, wondering now over how often they had called him gullible. Shaking his head, he stammered, waving his arms helplessly for quiet to try and clear his name, as Destin’s deep voice bellowed over the commotion.

“This man, as he calls himself, aided in the release of the foreigners who would kill your queen, those who seek to strike at the heels of our great country as we turn upon a new enemy.” Taking up his sword again, Destin paced a few steps at the far end of the circle, a smug smile stretching across his scarred face, welcoming his hesitant opponent. “And yet I give the fool a chance for redemption in my death, and see, the coward does refuse my generosity!”

“I am no traitor, no coward!” Latharitan’s voice broke with desperation, eyes flicking to faces in the crowd, once friendly and now wild and misshapen with anger. This certainly would not end well, yet in the midst of what now felt to Latharitan an impossibly thick situation, the peasant quite suddenly found his smile again, complete with its hideous teeth. “I am, in fact,” he cried again above his own death threats, stepping forward to resume his position in the circle with Destin and lifting his sword, “as much a coward as you are generous.” The only laughs aside from his own, Latharitan imagined came from the gypsies, but the irritation disrupting the knight’s arrogance and calm complacency was enough to encourage the peasant and spur him on as it had spurred him from his door, now wreathed in flames just beyond the stain of slaughter outside the butcher’s stall. Desperation made a man bold enough to leap past concerns of social class, with home gone to dust and life soon to follow.

And so the fight ensued, with the music roaring to a violent heave all around them. It passed through him like the cruel spiritual winds of war. His heart fluttered with the shaking of the tambourine, and his feet danced to the thrashing of guitar chords. Again, the hard clashes of metal crashed as symbols above the gypsy symphony. Sweet honey filled Latharitan’s mouth, the taste of blood that trickled down his chin, caused him to appear more pale and fervent in an instant. He heard the insistent percussion just beyond his thoughts, distant as the washing of waves against a quiet shore on some foreign sea, darkened by the nightfall. The tide beat ever slower, as if one day it altogether cease. An urgent sting in his shin—and he, hunching wearily with his sword before him, looked up to Destin, whose face had twisted in a grimace. In an instant it contorted to anger. Brief unnumbered instants, each characterized by the mingling of green and livid gazes: these were drawing desperately to a close, and strings were snapping.

A flash of red spat in his face, followed by a sharp pain that rang through his arm. He gripped the weapon tighter. His hands were raw on the unfurnished hilt, splitting his thoughts with agony through every swing. The blood was warm on his shoulder, burning like lye. His lungs were on fire and vision blurred as the image of his crumbling home distorted by the heat. Endlessly the other sword bombarded his own, beating strongly and continuously, while Latharitan only managed now to lift his broadsword in defense, gradually shuffling back in retreat with each new assault.

Hard breathing filled their ears. Pondering the blood that lined his blade, Latharitan felt another blow against his sword, wrenching his arm down with its power. He ducked quickly behind Destin, rolling to his feet in time to dodge a clumsy thrust.

“Wait!” Latharitan cowered at last, stumbling back from Destin's blade as it dug into the dirt at his feet.

“Kill him, Latharitan!”

The square became hushed, other cries choked in confusion, as the melody of the gypsies paused. They cheered him so again from the edges of the crowd, instruments long brutalized by their passions. Still their faces remained uncertain, but he knew the accented voices from the south, as did Destin. The knight halted from his ending heave upon the peasant, lowering his sword as he glared, peering suspiciously around the faces in the crowd, now red and open mouthed again, screaming for their satisfaction and waving their money like rich men.

Mackae, the youngest of the gypsy travelers, held his violin in one hand and a hefty stone in the other, ready to pummel the knight from behind the shield of magic. Fersethon, the dancer, hung on the shoulder of her partner and lover, Hidret, a dainty hand clinging to his doublet, her tambourine held tightly against her chest, but all of this remained unseen, as they demanded results of their own.

Indigo raised his voice again above the other calls, sighting the knight’s hesitation. “Kill him, now!” The gypsy stood in front of Hidret, who urged Fersethon tenderly to the side, as he drew his bow under Indigo's cover and notched an arrow to the string, awaiting the fall of their protection if it were required. The private nature of the duel restrained them, the soldiers observing in the crowd content in the audience until new contenders thought to take the stage.

But after a moment’s consideration, Destin’s green gaze returned to meet Latharitan’s, both their eyes vibrant with the bright red smearing their lips. Destin’s smile twitched up smugly once more to the humbled peasant. “It seems that, despite all your selfless aid, my gullible young adversary, that these gypsies you thought to be your friends have now left their tasks to you again,” he scoffed, snorting a disgusted laugh. “You’re alone, you poor, stupid fool.” He raised his weapon again.

Desperation and fear seized Latharitan’s voice as he pleaded, howling for mercy over the cheers enclosing him. He spread his hands to the knight’s feet as he sprawled there before them, only to cry again as his worn fingers were stepped on, and he found himself pinned in this position of execution. And as he fought now to tug away from Destin’s reach, his fingers breaking, peasants and soldiers drew lines across their necks. Latharitan’s lips trembled, as he twisted his head to watch the blade descend. A powerful roar possessed his thoughts, and odd images flashed through his mind: the pig slaughtered outside the butchers house, the basket of snakes Tuluse collected. He thirsted for a vision of Cerna, his mouth dry with fear, but it was as if he had forgotten her entirely.

“Hold your sword, Destin!”

Tauntingly the blade sliced into the ground beside Latharitan, as the young man continued to writhe in terror.

Hidret pulled back his arrow, Indigo stepping aside from his aim and letting down the gypsy magic that had hidden their identity from the crowd. Hidret smiled despite the uncertainty of their position, keeping the bow taut despite the great weight of the string. The rest of the troupe watched the attending soldiers guardedly, the castle portcullis, both still with the threat of their captain’s life. “Or do you wish to challenge Cerna's gypsy clan as one man? I tell you now how quickly you would fall: with just the release of my arrow. Leave him.”

At last, the crowd had gone silent, and Destin lifted his armored boot from the mangled hand beneath it. Still partially stunned and shaking, Latharitan rose stiffly, turning his head to study the crowd. A dark man who had advised Destin over Latharitan's life now made his way into the castle, the soldiers only watching with disappointment and anticipation, blankly awaiting some order. Taking up his sword quickly, Latharitan scrambled to the sanctuary of the gypsy company. The group drew back, magic blurring their images again as they escaped the throng, while Hidret stood still exposed, his aim steady. Destin stood similarly, eyes hot, but mouth fixed with fear from any command.

“The Lady Cerna's gypsies! Seize them!”

The clinking of chains sounded, a mass of soldiers from the inner courtyard passed under the half drawn portcullis, waving swords to clear the crowd as they approached. Across the square, the gypsies untied five horses from the tavern post, leaping onto the reluctant mounts. An arrow whistled past Hidret's ear, shot too quickly by a soldier in the crowd, who hurriedly fumbled to set another arrow. Convinced at last from their gawking, the peasants scattered in a mess about the market, largely blocking the soldiers, as they blundered to reach one side of the square or the other. Hidret released his arrow into the soldier's neck.

Shoved by the frightened gathering, Destin swung back around at Hidret with his broad sword, striking at him as the gypsy faded from his sight into the crowd. Clumsily, the knight hit the ground, watching through the veil of his golden hair and the last of scattering feet as the gypsy let down his wearying magic again, now far from harm. He doubled up on a horse with Fersethon, who rattled her tambourine once more as they fled into the woods with the others.

Destin clenched his fists, growling low in his throat, as he heard a joyful tune strike up in the farm fields outside the walls of the city even with the limited strings with which the musicians now had to work. Several mounted soldiers rushed past, clearing the remaining crowd, as they chased the dwindling songs, while Destin’s own fine stallion had been one of the five plucked from the tavern. Infuriated, he stomped under the portcullis, allowing the soldiers to dispose of the vermin if they would, which was unlikely. For the moment, he would be content in finding a mage who could tend his wounds.