Chapter 4.3

Earth’s kebab went cold in his hand. Synu, also awestruck, did not neglect to finish her peapods. Guardsmen, moments before lounging in corners, a witbeer in hand and a pretty girl on the arm, rushed to the fore of the crowd with salutes of attention, making way for fully outfitted men-at-arms to break a path through the crowd. Vested in the platesmelt that only came from the royal forges of Ambra, black armors that glistened with the subtle blue-red tint, the  grim-eyed and cool soldiers pushed through the murmuring crowd, opening the way for the line of mounted knights to ride in behind them. Each chest alike bore the crest of the Shadowsun in filigree, a dark starburst of gold over black, the same emblem emblazoned on the tunics of three heralds on foot, brandishing strange, rounded horns and marching in locked step. 

The vanguard took up stations about the dais, a square phalanx armored black surrounded by flowers upon flowers of gold. The murmuring of the crowd roiled a low-boiling cauldron but then died away. A still settled over all else while a solitary knight on a midnight steed made way along the widened path his army cut for him through the crowd. His cape gleamed that much finer. His mount was that much haughtier. Even with his face hidden,  his helm left little doubt who this legendary figure was. 

The men-at-arms all wore barbutes, conical helms with t-shaped openings through which their hardened faces could be seen grimacing. Each mounted knight donned a black armet, platesmelt, with trap-door-like masks hewn as warriors mid battle cry. But he far surpassed them all, a single, mystery within a solid platesmelt great helm worn over shimmering coife, the bascinet worked with exquisite detail to appear the soft face of a young child, crowned with a haloed starburst of solid gold, its spiked rays glorifying all the more the hidden colors of the otherwise gleaming black metal. 

This was indeed the Bastardking of Ambra. Here, before Earth, rode the ruler of all the land. Passing the knights stationed at the base of the dais, the Shadowsun mastered his mount passed the the men-at-arms who stood at attention on each step and out onto the center of the stage. The charger turned this way, then that, energetic and powerful, but never out of control. He sat it like a living throne. 

Then, when all was still and hidden, he reached a gauntleted hand up to remove the bascinet. The audible breath of the crowd rushed in. But then, to the side, there was a sudden commotion. A heavy-set man was struggling to press his way pass the pikemen and into the fore. 

The lawyer who called himself Mayor of Elusa was not a wicked man. Some might whisper, “Fool!” fearlessly as he passed by on any given day, but his adept skills with a quill and parchment earned him plenty of influence on the projects of the town, such as the building of walls and the organization of festivals. Fool still he proved in his bustled haste to fulfill his own imagined self-importance, so that Dormin of Ahrventon entangled himself with his own hired guardsmen as they tried to pull him back from the wall of knights. The black and stern soldiers remained cold and audacious, holy is their armor, frightfully powerful as majestic beings descended from the heavens. 

The King lowered his hands from his helm to rest in his lap. Perhaps by sheer ability to out-bungle his men, Dormin stumbled away from their minor row in victory. Wiping his hands on his leggings, he looked about as if for the first time realizing he had no plan at all as to what he intended to do. The omnipresent silence of the packed square pressed down on them all, until his soft and slightly sagging was heard to swallow quite audibly. Yet, against everyone elses’ better judgment, he nonetheless opened his mouth to speak. 

“I greet you, Sovereign visitor, to this, our fair Festival of the Cor Blossoms!”

Nothing. Then more of it. Not a muscle moved in the entire square but the wringing of poor Dormin’s hands.

“Ahem, yes,” he then stammered, as much to himself as to anyone else. “I say, ‘You are a most welcome sight!’ The House of Ambra sheds gracious light upon our humble township.” He then stooped low in something effecting a bow. 

Mute, dumb, deadening silence, innocent platesmelt and vigilant eyes. 

Bowing beneath those eyes Dormin remained for so long, no doubt expecting some response. That he started to struggle, his stooping, top-heavy frame burdened all the more by the frigid air of condescension that held about the square like a thick mist. At last, the laxity of his will folded, for better that than his back! Shaking with the effort of having waited entirely too long, the torment drove him to an upright position, whereat he clapped his arms firm to his sides and, to the wide chagrin of all, opened his mouth to address the masked Lord. Yet, to the pleasant surprise that twists on the plot might bring, he only stood agape for a long second. He then closed his mouth. Opened it again. Closed it once more. Opened it with shift of the head and a hand in the air. Then, still pointing to heaven, but shaking his head as he eyed the street, he made off in earnest jostling and displacing of the near crowd in pursuit of the anonymity he so willingly sacrificed.

“My people!” The Shadowsun of Ambra declared. Every eye shot from the commotion of Dormin to the visage of the Bastardking, visage of crowned-innocence now settled to rest on the pommel of his destrier. 

Artwork