[Mildly Fantasy] [2018] The New Heir

James knelt.
Around him, the branches of the pale-green-leafed yew trees that surrounded twisted and conjoined to form a natural wall, a barrier.
Above him, clouds obscured the sun and the sky leaving nothing but grey. No birds obstructed the bland, matte colour.
Below him, the dying and flowerless grass, although sporadic, stretched across the grove as if it were a natural carpet coloured brown.

In front of him, however, sat a plinth-like stone placed in the centre of the grove with two objects on-top of it, a stone and a statue. The statue sat behind the sword, in a knelt meditation position looking up at the sky. Made of a black metal, it had few features; no mouth, a holy cross in its place, and holes where the nose and eyes would usually sit. The surface of it was covered in dents, cracks and an assortment of damage, as well as much of the body having been covered by a thin, draped black piece of fabric which, like the statue itself, was quite damaged. The hands of this statue reached out towards the sword, lodged halfway inside the stone, and held both the hilt and blade of the weapon with as much might as a large hunk of metal could. The sword it held was no less stranger, it glowed a blinding white like a star with no visible detail or texture.

James spoke out a strange incantation, the language certainly not Mercanti, and placed his right hand on the tip of the hilt. He threw his head back in total, utter agony, whilst both his eyes and the eyes of the statues glowed white like the sword. Before he knew it, the statue had pulled the blade out of the stone and stood up, towering over James like a golem. The statue thrusted the sword through James' neck with as much force as it could muster before returning itself and the sword into the position it had previously sat in as if nothing had happened.

James was not the Heir.
He was not the King who'd lead Cronaal to a new age.

(Hey Techy, thanks for the comment but you should've posted that in the OOC here, where I'll answer any questions: http://forum.thenorthpacific.org/topic/7591580/1/#new)

Five people sat inside a cave, they knelt on the dais with grey, burdening blankets draped over whatever jeans and hoodies they wore beneath. Sunlight only barely breached the confines of their place of worship, casting a dim glow onto their pale, cynical faces. These were cultists, no doubt, but they did not eat the flesh of their own kind, nor put their fellows to death for a god they barely understood, no, they worshipped their Heir, the new King who would bring salvation upon Cronaal. However, there was no Heir. These people were Kingless, abandoned and empty with no master to serve.

Their Heir was the man who could retrieve the sword, the sword in the Grove guarded by Him, and the sword could only be retrieved if the person attempting met one specific condition: "Be one who is 'sinless'".

Many a time had the cultists taken people from the streets against their will and led them to a gruesome fate in the Grove, they had no care for human life unless it was a life dedicate to the Heir or the life of the Heir himself. They were growing desperate, they'd continuously searched for four years, damning hundreds to the same fate.

However, this would not last forever. A king would be crowned soon, very soon.

Arthur was trapped in the bustle and chaos of a busy mess hall, men and women alike were dressed in thin coats and clothes you could barely deem a rag at this point, and despite the aroma of fresh food, the stench of this place was almost too much for him. Grotesque were the walls and floors of this room, they’d not been cleaned in years and the paint of the walls appeared to be peeling off, nor did the broken glass of the disheveled, dirt-smeared windows support the aesthetic.

However, it was safe, something that could not be said about most of his home, Cronaal.

Arthur sat by himself, in the corner of the hall, with his face in his forlornly shoved into his hands, lightly covered in the grime and veins almost popping. They were calloused, hardened from the constant attempts of merely surviving, and even cut in some places. He did not cry, no, but he felt overcome with a sense and overpowering feeling of struggle, of how all he cared for was ripped from his grasp by the fools who once held strings over his home.

”Don’t you miss those days when we could live, rather than survive, kid?”, A woman asked him, she was much older than him and most likely in her fifties maybe, which could be gathered from the en masse of wrinkles spread across her face. Something appeared off about her though, she wore a black hoodie with a thick knit blanket draped over her torso which Arthur could have sworn he’d recognised from elsewhere.

”Definitely”, he answered, pulling his head out of his hands and smiling despite the redness of his eyes.

”Oh dear, what’s this boy. Look at you!”, She said before fretting over Arthur and handing him an unused tissue from her pocket.
”Don’t tell me you’ve been crying, poor soul”.

”Oh no, no, no! I promise you, I haven’t!” Arthur hurriedly spouted whilst trying to give the tissue back.

”If you wish it so”, She answered politely, taking the tissue back.

”Thank you, though.”, Arthur quickly added, in worry she thought he was rude.
”Hey, who are you anyway, I don’t think I’ve seen you around this settlement before.”, he also inquired.

”Oh? Nobody, I assure you, just an old woman who saw somebody in need.” She answered, looking sincere with her smile.

”That still doesn’t answer where you’re from though.”, Arthur replied, in a jestful manner.

”Well… Why don’t we discuss that outside, I don’t exactly trust the folk in here”, she answered, with a worried tone whilst reaching her hand out, motioning for Arthur to get up and take a step outside.

Arthur grabbed the old woman’s hand, which felt surprisingly more sturdy than he’d expected, and shuffled through the crowd with her to leave the mess hall. He’d begun to get tired of the obnoxious, boisterous conversations that had filled his eardrums and withheld him from some peace.

As they left the building, he noticed how unnaturally still the outer courtyard was, given it was usually filled with crowds of paupers and merchants, who only barely got by selling whatever goods they could pick out of a pile of rubble. After Arthur further observed the area, he came to realise that not a single soul nor animal was around, only him and the woman. His heart rate begun to rise in absolute fear, knowing it was too late to go back inside.

”Well…”, She expressed, not sure how to word herself,
”I live in the palace in this city, the Swansford Palace, dear.”

”You must have quite a view from there.” Arthur replied jokingly, trying to hide his nerves.

”Quite, dear, the North ocean shines a beautiful turquoise as sunset.”
”However, that’s irrelevant. I live there alongside some of my... how to describe them, associates. She added, speaking in a more serious tone than when indoors.

”What’s that got to do with me?”, Arthur inquired.

”Mind your head.”, She warned, unshaken.

Before Arthur could even begin to utter a reply, a bag was put over his head and his vision was abruptly submerged into darkness. His senses faded as he fell into a state of consciousness, brought upon him by a firm, muscular arm. What did strangers want with him? To take him and strip his bones of it’s flesh, to devour him? To enslave him, an abuse of the anarchy? He did not know.


A painting. Arthur could see a painting.
There was a man, a young one at that, and he had short brown hair, dark brown hair. Their clothes were plain, brown and grey, and they looked dirty. There was no face though, the man was turned away.
Wait.
Arthur could see a painting of himself hanging on the wall.

Despite having been kidnapped, he felt unusually calm, with a steady heartbeat and relaxed muscles, it’d not even dawned on him to figure out where he was, beyond the painting on the wall. So he looked. Finely detailed walls, expensive mahogany flooring, ornate wooden furniture in several areas of the room and beneath Arthur sat a king-size bed with the most comfortable mattress he’d have the privilege of using in years. A bedroom? The woman had taken him to a bedroom?

Suddenly, the door swung open.

A woman came through the door and sat nearby Arthur in a chair. She wore the same worn, dirty clothing as most people in Korova did but her chestnut hair looked soft and cared for as if it were washed earlier in the day. In her hands sat a small medicine bottle which she began to open and bring to Arthur’s face.

“Please do not struggle.” she said softly while opening his mouth and pouring the contents of the bottle into it. He was too weak to struggle, even if he had tried to.


Arthur opened his eyes. Grey, metallic sky.
After spending a moment trying to figure out where he was, he noticed an enormous marble bust protruded out of the sand beneath his feet, he guessed the bust alone was nearly the size of a city block. He saw similar structures in the distance, some only being hands reaching through the sand and others were exposed from the waist-up but all were of equally colossal size. As far as the eye could see, only sand and statues. And grey. The sand, statues and the blank sky were all similar shades of the same metallic grey.
He looked in the distance again, he could see a person standing on top of one of the marble hands grasping for the sky through the sand dunes. At least, he thought it was a person.
Not sure what to do, Arthur began to trek towards the person. As he walked, he noticed that despite the sun and miles of burning sand, a distinct chill pierced through the layers of clothes he wore.
“Anywhere warmer than here, maybe Kolenko or Sireksiya.” he muttered, rubbing his arms for warmth knowing complaining would do nothing helpful.

Arthur was close enough to see the person now, he could see a tall, pale man with a black cloak draped over his shoulder. No, it wasn’t a man, it was a Kaenë. He’d not seen one in a long time, all the Aed Kaenë in Korova had either died or fled by now. Arthur walked closer.

“Arthur Dmitry Tatarov.” the kaenë announced after noticing Arthur, he stopped walking immediately. Before Arthur could examine the keanë he dissipated into the air, leaving a trail of black dust in the wind, and materialised again several steps from Arthur in the sand.

“How the hell!” Arthur shouted, taking some steps back in shock.
“Calm boy, calm and listen.” the kaenë asked before muttering some unintelligible words in Arthur’s direction, he felt subdued,
“When you wake, recite this to the woman who brought you here: ‘Bën’ét Raë'é’, Bitter Korova.” As the last word left the kaenë’s mouth, both the kaenë and the sand dunes surrounding Arthur began to dissipate into the same black dust and Arthur himself began to dissipate too.