10-15 sentence TAG

[donteatpoop]

RULES
* Write ten to fifteen sentences before tagging off, no less than 10, no more than 15.
* No "tag-backs"
* No "and then he/she woke up" or similar plot 180's.
* This story is to be told from a 3rd person perspective, please.

If you're interested in playing post an "I'm in" and you are in.

Here's the beginning of the story (open tag to the first person to post that they are in)

------------------------------------------------------------------

King Dormot’s mind had been waning out along with his health in the last few years. Prior to yesterday he hadn’t come out of his room at all, attended closely by servants for everything from meals and bowel movements to errands and bedtime stories. The kingdom assumed he would die off any day now and many of them were already wearing the traditional black garb of mourning.

The servants spoke of voices coming from the king’s chambers, but finding the room empty (save for their liege) upon entering. Everyone assumed it was madness, the king sinking into the depths of insanity in what was clearly the final throes of death.

But yesterday the king strolled out of his chambers with a straight back and a powerful stride. He sat in on the councils his son, Prince Torak, had been holding; and informed the prince that the king was back and would resume his rule.

Her was the picture of good health, had an appetite and a thirst for wine and women. He was back, and more alive than ever before.

But there was something else about him that didn’t seem quite right, more than just his sudden rejuvenation. There was a darkness to him that was never there before, an edge of evil to his demeanor. It was nothing that anyone could directly put a finger on, but something had happened to him, something had breathed life back into him along with a strange and sinister edge that was never there before.

Something was very wrong.

(TAG)

[Locke]

I'm in. (As the game is new and you haven't yet selected someone to tag, I am not writing a continuance as of this post)

[donteatpoop]

Well, it was an open tag to the first person who posted they were in. And that's you... So I guess I should tag you.

(tag)

[Locke]

Well - as there are no tag-backs, my tag has to go to the next person to join, and theirs has to go to you, unless someone joins in the interim - which defeats the purpose of the "tag" for a few rounds; I thought your intent was to wait until participants had been collected to choose among. But okay - I will post with my continuance shortly.

[Usoki]

I am also in.

[donteatpoop]

Well - as there are no tag-backs, my tag has to go to the next person to join, and theirs has to go to you, unless someone joins in the interim - which defeats the purpose of the "tag" for a few rounds; I thought your intent was to wait until participants had been collected to choose among. But okay - I will edit this post with my continuance shortly.
Well, you've got me there. There wasn't anyone for you to tag. I wasn't thinking quite that far ahead. But I guess there's Usoki now, so we have three writers now. The more the merrier.

[Vesnic]

Yeah, why the fuck not. Throw me in. I don't give a fuck about anything else so fuck it why not?

[Locke]

A robust countenance; strong, fair, healthy. Whose face is this? He bows, for we are in public and ceremony, appearances must be maintained. "The company is assembled, Father; the lords are ready to ride." He reaches out, those noble brows bent, knitted with worry; touches my shoulder - a gesture of empathy, concern. "Are you sure you're well enough to join the hunt?" "Never better. The day is waning; let us set out. Have the grooms prepare my horse." A glorious voice; sonorous and powerful, yet gentle and kind - but whose? I follow along the battlements, watching his red-gold cloak whisper over white stones in the wind; catching glimpses of forest and countryside, whole and verdant acres beneath the mist far below. Myself, my son? My kingdom? A dark haze clouds my mind's eye. What is happening to our world?

(Tag - Usoki)

[Usoki]

The preparations for the hunt took longer than expected. The stablehands were nowhere to be found, and the stablemaster didn't even remember how many horses he needed to saddle up. King Dormot took hold of the situation with youthful vigor, and had soon taken control of the entire situation.

"You were right to contact me, my liege," said Caerse.

"Can it, wizard," replied Prince Torak. "You know damn well I don't trust you one bit. But it takes a bastard to know a bastard. My father is under the influence of magic, and I expect you to figure it out."

"But of course, my liege. But as I said, no harm done. My confusion spell will wear off eventually, and your stablemaster will be good as new."

"And I suppose those two young lads will become unsacrificed when your scrying spell is over?"

Caerse merely laughed at the prince's remark. "If you're going to fight fire with fire, you would do well to learn to handle a minor burn or two. What are the lives of the dirty common folk in comparison to the situation at hand?"

(Tag DEP)

[donteatpoop]

Story so far:

King Dormot’s mind had been waning out along with his health in the last few years. Prior to yesterday he hadn’t come out of his room at all, attended closely by servants for everything from meals and bowel movements to errands and bedtime stories. The kingdom assumed he would die off any day now and many of them were already wearing the traditional black garb of mourning.

The servants spoke of voices coming from the king’s chambers, but finding the room empty (save for their liege) upon entering. Everyone assumed it was madness, the king sinking into the depths of insanity in what was clearly the final throes of death.

But yesterday the king strolled out of his chambers with a straight back and a powerful stride. He sat in on the councils his son, Prince Torak, had been holding; and informed the prince that the king was back and would resume his rule.

He was the picture of good health, had an appetite and a thirst for wine and women. He was back, and more alive than ever before.

But there was something else about him that didn’t seem quite right, more than just his sudden rejuvenation. There was a darkness to him that was never there before, an edge of evil to his demeanor. It was nothing that anyone could directly put a finger on, but something had happened to him, something had breathed life back into him along with a strange and sinister edge that was never there before.

Something was very wrong.

A robust countenance; strong, fair, healthy. Whose face is this?

He bowed, for they were in public and ceremony, appearances must be maintained.

"The company is assembled, Father; the lords are ready to ride." He reached out, those noble brows bent, knitted with worry; touches my shoulder - a gesture of empathy, concern. "Are you sure you're well enough to join the hunt?"

"Never better. The day is waning; let us set out. Have the grooms prepare my horse."

A glorious voice; sonorous and powerful, yet gentle and kind - but whose?

I follow along the battlements, watching his red-gold cloak whisper over white stones in the wind; catching glimpses of forest and countryside, whole and verdant acres beneath the mist far below.

Myself, my son? My kingdom? A dark haze clouds my mind's eye. What is happening to our world?

The preparations for the hunt took longer than expected. The stablehands were nowhere to be found, and the stablemaster didn't even remember how many horses he needed to saddle up. King Dormot took hold of the situation with youthful vigor, and had soon taken control of the entire situation.

"You were right to contact me, my liege," said Caerse.

"Can it, wizard," replied Prince Torak. "You know damn well I don't trust you one bit. But it takes a bastard to know a bastard. My father is under the influence of magic, and I expect you to figure it out."

"But of course, my liege. But as I said, no harm done. My confusion spell will wear off eventually, and your stablemaster will be good as new."

"And I suppose those two young lads will become unsacrificed when your scrying spell is over?"

Caerse merely laughed at the prince's remark. "If you're going to fight fire with fire, you would do well to learn to handle a minor burn or two. What are the lives of the dirty common folk in comparison to the situation at hand?"

The prince looked back at him in disgust. “You’re a monster.”

The wizard shrugged his shoulders and inclined his head. “Yes, my prince; the best in the business.” Caerse pulled the hood back up over his head and stepped backwards into the shadows.

“Torak!” The voice boomed from behind him and the prince looked back to see his father sitting astride a large mount. “Let’s get moving, boy. Are you to hunt with the men?”

“Of course, father,” Torak said as he found a steed for himself. It was my hunting trip in the first place.


(TAG: Ves)

[Vesnic]

Mounting his steed, the prince took off after his father. The King flew through the wood with an almost unearthly speed, his horse's hooves barely touching the ground. Where on earth was he going? It soon became clear to the Prince, as he struggled desperately to keep up, whipping his horse mercilessly onward, that this was to be no ordinary hunt.

"Father, slow down!" Torak shouted. The King glanced back with a leering smile, his head turning unnaturally on his shoulder and his eyes seeming to stare right through the Prince. Then, without any warning, he stopped dead in the middle of a strange triangular clearing. Torak pulled desperately at his horse to slow down, coming to a grinding, jolting stop in a cloud of dust just inches away from his father.

"Well, now," mused the King thoughtfully. "Now we are here and the tables are turned. Hunter becomes hunted."

Whether in the throes of some terminal lunacy or under a deep and sinister spell, the King now sat before the Prince an enigmatic and dangerous stranger. As his whole body seemed to freeze with an unnatural frost, Torak realized that Caerse's help would be indispensable in unlocking the secret to his father's terrifying transformation.

(TAG: Usoki)

[Usoki]

"You know, boy..." said the king, "a hunt is a dangerous place to be. It's so hard to tell the difference between the man and the beast, and I can't help but notice that we've galloped away from all the other noblemen." The king began to position his horse so that he was right next to Torak.

The young prince tried to speak, tried to move- tried to anything, but he could not move. An unnatural, cursed chill -or was it fear- began to run through his veins. All he could do as watch as the man who was -had been?- his father kept talking.

"Why, in fact, I understand that there are accidents, even fatalities, when simple safety precautions are broken. We wouldn't want that to happen, now would we?" He reached at Torak's side, and slowly withdrew the boy's sword from his scabbard. "No one would be to blame, of course," said Dormot, "But it is a horrible tragedy all the same, wouldn't you agree?"

The king held the point of the blade on his chest, and stabbed himself. There was a cry, a flash, and a cloud of violet smoke that seems to exist solely to enter Torak's lungs. When the magic cleared, Torak saw his father's corpse, mangled and emaciated. "Noblemen, come quick!" cried Torak. "Our beloved king is dead, and foul magic is afoot!"

Tag (Locke)

[Locke]

Caerse stepped into the clearing, the soles of his doeskin softboots noiseless on the forest floor. He held the bloodied corpse of a goshawk in one gloved hand, Gilbert the falconer's bird, and cast it casually at Torak's feet. "Quite a predicament you've gotten youself into." Torak stared wordlessly, his eyes flickering between the magician and the bodies on the ground. "The bird? You should know that life force is a powerful magical catalyst; this one's soul fuels a potent but rather short-lived illusory charm I've placed around us."

Disgust, contempt flashed across the prince's face, and he reached for his sword on the dark and bloody ground. "You did this." "I certainly did not," Caerse said, smirking, "and in any case, circumstances seem to make you a far more likely culprit. Oh, I know it wasn't you," he continued, "the black aura in this place is much too strong; it's impossible, even taking into account your somewhat limited studies of my late predecessor's works. But reality is, of course, only what we perceive it to be, and I'm afraid the evidence is quite strong against you." The color drained from Torak's face as the sounds of the hunting party through the underbrush grew nearer. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying I can use my abilities to paint the lords a far more agreeable picture, or I can disappear from this place and leave you holding that bloody sword. Decide quickly, Prince Torak," he smiled, "and remember that all true magic has its price."

(Tag - DEP)

[donteatpoop]

I love the turns this story has taken so far. Not what I envisioned, but of course you can’t really envision things in a tag story. Great work. Anyway

Story so far (which will take up two posts now):

King Dormot’s mind had been waning out along with his health in the last few years. Prior to yesterday he hadn’t come out of his room at all, attended closely by servants for everything from meals and bowel movements to errands and bedtime stories. The kingdom assumed he would die off any day now and many of them were already wearing the traditional black garb of mourning.

The servants spoke of voices coming from the king’s chambers, but finding the room empty (save for their liege) upon entering. Everyone assumed it was madness, the king sinking into the depths of insanity in what was clearly the final throes of death.

But yesterday the king strolled out of his chambers with a straight back and a powerful stride. He sat in on the councils his son, Prince Torak, had been holding; and informed the prince that the king was back and would resume his rule.

He was the picture of good health, had an appetite and a thirst for wine and women. He was back, and more alive than ever before.

But there was something else about him that didn’t seem quite right, more than just his sudden rejuvenation. There was a darkness to him that was never there before, an edge of evil to his demeanor. It was nothing that anyone could directly put a finger on, but something had happened to him, something had breathed life back into him along with a strange and sinister edge that was never there before.

Something was very wrong.

A robust countenance; strong, fair, healthy. Whose face is this?

He bowed, for they were in public and ceremony, appearances must be maintained.

"The company is assembled, Father; the lords are ready to ride." He reached out, those noble brows bent, knitted with worry; touches my shoulder - a gesture of empathy, concern. "Are you sure you're well enough to join the hunt?"

"Never better. The day is waning; let us set out. Have the grooms prepare my horse."

A glorious voice; sonorous and powerful, yet gentle and kind - but whose?

I follow along the battlements, watching his red-gold cloak whisper over white stones in the wind; catching glimpses of forest and countryside, whole and verdant acres beneath the mist far below.

Myself, my son? My kingdom? A dark haze clouds my mind's eye. What is happening to our world?

The preparations for the hunt took longer than expected. The stablehands were nowhere to be found, and the stablemaster didn't even remember how many horses he needed to saddle up. King Dormot took hold of the situation with youthful vigor, and had soon taken control of the entire situation.

"You were right to contact me, my liege," said Caerse.

"Can it, wizard," replied Prince Torak. "You know damn well I don't trust you one bit. But it takes a bastard to know a bastard. My father is under the influence of magic, and I expect you to figure it out."

"But of course, my liege. But as I said, no harm done. My confusion spell will wear off eventually, and your stablemaster will be good as new."

"And I suppose those two young lads will become unsacrificed when your scrying spell is over?"

Caerse merely laughed at the prince's remark. "If you're going to fight fire with fire, you would do well to learn to handle a minor burn or two. What are the lives of the dirty common folk in comparison to the situation at hand?"

The prince looked back at him in disgust. “You’re a monster.”

The wizard shrugged his shoulders and inclined his head. “Yes, my prince; the best in the business.” Caerse pulled the hood back up over his head and stepped backwards into the shadows.

“Torak!” The voice boomed from behind him and the prince looked back to see his father sitting astride a large mount. “Let’s get moving, boy. Are you to hunt with the men?”

“Of course, father,” Torak said as he found a steed for himself. It was my hunting trip in the first place.

Mounting his steed, the prince took off after his father. The King flew through the wood with an almost unearthly speed, his horse's hooves barely touching the ground. Where on earth was he going? It soon became clear to the Prince, as he struggled desperately to keep up, whipping his horse mercilessly onward, that this was to be no ordinary hunt.

"Father, slow down!" Torak shouted. The King glanced back with a leering smile, his head turning unnaturally on his shoulder and his eyes seeming to stare right through the Prince. Then, without any warning, he stopped dead in the middle of a strange triangular clearing. Torak pulled desperately at his horse to slow down, coming to a grinding, jolting stop in a cloud of dust just inches away from his father.

"Well, now," mused the King thoughtfully. "Now we are here and the tables are turned. Hunter becomes hunted."

Whether in the throes of some terminal lunacy or under a deep and sinister spell, the King now sat before the Prince an enigmatic and dangerous stranger. As his whole body seemed to freeze with an unnatural frost, Torak realized that Caerse's help would be indispensable in unlocking the secret to his father's terrifying transformation.

"You know, boy..." said the king, "a hunt is a dangerous place to be. It's so hard to tell the difference between the man and the beast, and I can't help but notice that we've galloped away from all the other noblemen." The king began to position his horse so that he was right next to Torak.

[donteatpoop]

The young prince tried to speak, tried to move- tried to anything, but he could not move. An unnatural, cursed chill -or was it fear- began to run through his veins. All he could do as watch as the man who was -had been?- his father kept talking.

"Why, in fact, I understand that there are accidents, even fatalities, when simple safety precautions are broken. We wouldn't want that to happen, now would we?" He reached at Torak's side, and slowly withdrew the boy's sword from his scabbard. "No one would be to blame, of course," said Dormot, "But it is a horrible tragedy all the same, wouldn't you agree?"

The king held the point of the blade on his chest, and stabbed himself. There was a cry, a flash, and a cloud of violet smoke that seems to exist solely to enter Torak's lungs. When the magic cleared, Torak saw his father's corpse, mangled and emaciated. "Noblemen, come quick!" cried Torak. "Our beloved king is dead, and foul magic is afoot!"

Caerse stepped into the clearing, the soles of his doeskin softboots noiseless on the forest floor. He held the bloodied corpse of a goshawk in one gloved hand, Gilbert the falconer's bird, and cast it casually at Torak's feet.

"Quite a predicament you've gotten youself into." Torak stared wordlessly, his eyes flickering between the magician and the bodies on the ground. "The bird? You should know that life force is a powerful magical catalyst; this one's soul fuels a potent but rather short-lived illusory charm I've placed around us."

Disgust, contempt flashed across the prince's face, and he reached for his sword on the dark and bloody ground. "You did this."

"I certainly did not," Caerse said, smirking, "and in any case, circumstances seem to make you a far more likely culprit. Oh, I know it wasn't you," he continued, "the black aura in this place is much too strong; it's impossible, even taking into account your somewhat limited studies of my late predecessor's works. But the reality is, of course, only what we perceive it to be, and I'm afraid the evidence is quite strong against you."

The color drained from Torak's face as the sounds of the hunting party through the underbrush grew nearer. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying I can use my abilities to paint the lords a far more agreeable picture, or I can disappear from this place and leave you holding that bloody sword. Decide quickly, Prince Torak," he smiled, "and remember that all true magic has its price."

**********

“Damn maddening, I tell you,” Sir Mallox was saying to the nobleman beside him as they rode at the back of the hunting party. That the king was alive and full of vigor alone was odd. The sudden rush into the wood with his son and leaving the rest of the hunting party far behind was doubly peculiar.

The fat and foppish cousin of the king was about to respond when an anguished cry arose from the head of the party. There was a small clearing up ahead, and the rest of the party heightened their pace.

“What is it?” Mallox asked as he made his way through the small crowd of mounts, whispers of “the king” were all the response he was given. When his eyes set on the tragic scene before him, however, he didn’t need an answer.

The king lay on the forest floor in an expanding pool of blood, Prince Torak held his lifeless form in his arms; his face full of anguish.

Sir Mallox, last to arrive, was the first to dismount and make his way over. “What has happened, my prince?”


(TAG: Usoki)

[Usoki]

"My father...he...was not well," Torak tried to say, holding back tears. "I told him not to over exert himself on this hunt, but he assisted on galloping ahead. He lost control of his horse, and...he was too weak to calm the beast, I tried to gallop ahead, but he was too fast- he had taken his sword out of his sheath, like he always did during the hunt...and he...it just...I..."

"It will be alright, my prince," said Sir Mallox, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Hunting is a dangerous game, even for the best of us. We should have asked the king to stay behind for his health...but who of us could have refused him?"

"Come on, lad" said another nobleman, stepping forward to help Sir Mallox steady the prince. "Let us return to the castle."

******************

Caerse stood alone in his chambers, facing a wall-length mirror swirling with evil. "Make your report, Caerse," said a voice from the mirror.

"But of course, milord," replied the wizard, bowing. "Possessing the king with a shadow wraith was easy, due to his weakened state, but wraith's energy made it seem like the king had made an unnatural recovery. So the wraith killed the king, and entered the prince's body upon death. The wraith wouldn't have been able to control such a healthy host had I not been there to weaken the boy with my magic. We now have control over the royal family, and no one suspects a thing."

(Tag- Veshie)

[Vesnic]

"Well done," hissed the disembodied voice that made even the hardened wizard Caerse shiver uncontrollably. "Bide your time now until you receive further instruction."

**************

Hours ago, the nobles had removed Torak's father from his numb arms and after a little unsuccessful coaxing, had left him to his bewildered grief. With the abandoned cry that only a desperate man can utter, Torak made one last attempt to escape the clearing. Again, he felt the stab of that icy and invisible barrier just at the clearing's edge. He fell to the ground moaning as the world above seemed to turn an eerie shade of violet. The tangible presence of black magic in the air made him heave and wretch as swirls of dust picked up around him in a sudden wind storm. Squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught, he heard the wind grow into a howl, and somewhere in the wind, a voice. No, it was not one voice, but many. It was a cacophony of hundreds of voices, all crying, all pleading for help. Then, just as the Prince felt sure that his very skin would be ripped off by the storm, everything stopped. As though the wind and the voices had never existed, Torak now opened his eyes to find himself in an utterly black, utterly still place. He knew he was completely at the mercy of whatever person, or thing, stood in front of him. And there was indeed someone in front of him because he could just eke out the sound of a slow, raspy breath.

(Tag: Locke)

[donteatpoop]

(are you still in, Locke? We may have to tag someone else if you're too buzy right now or want out or something.)

[Vesnic]

Too late. Locke is being too lethargic.

(TAG: Poopsicle)

[Locke]

Actually, I am still around - sorry for the wait; I haven't had many spare moments in the past several days. I'll post something - unless DEP's already working on it?

[donteatpoop]

I haven't started on it yet, Locke. It's all yours.

[Locke]

Trailers of dust shot through with golden shafts of afternoon sunlight permeated the air of the great hall; drifted, settled around the trim mustachioed man who sat alone oiling twin argent pistols at the round oak table in a far corner of room. He coughed; it was a dry season, and the air of the northern counties, it was said, was not good for the lungs. "That's truly amazing craftsmanship, Lord Tristan," said Gilbert the falconer, pulling a chair from an adjoining table, "though given your reputation as a duelist, I'm surprised to see you carrying firearms. They're notoriously unreliable; do you actually trust them?"

Flint gray eyes shifted up to meet his gaze and held it, unwavering, until the falconer looked away; experienced hands traced elegant scrollwork up to sights set along the barrel of one of the guns. "I trust them with my life," he said. "If you care for your tools, they'll be there when the time comes to use them. We have a forge on Orm, the western isle, that turns out hundreds like these each month, and the sulfur springs nearby make for high-grade powder. These pistols knew a master's touch; as weapons they are peerless."

"That... may have some bearing," Gilbert said, swallowing nervously; "tell me, what do you think of the new king?" "He's worn the crown but a week; so far he seems a most capable and proactive monarch, if a somewhat heavy-handed one." "You should know I come by way of Alistair, cousin of Dormot, and several of the other advisors," the falconer said. "I wasn't aware there had been a meeting of advisors," said the other man. "Tell me, what business does the cousin of the old king have with Tristan, Duke of Isles?" "It was not, ah, an official meeting," Gilbert replied, "but that is only fitting, as Torak continues to deny our requests to form an official House of Lords."

(Tag - DEP)

[donteatpoop]

I'm gonna be a bit behind on this. If anyone wants to skip me, feel free to. Otherwise I'll add the next section tomorrow evening (technically Wed morning in the 1-3am range)

[donteatpoop]

Trails of dust shot through with golden shafts of afternoon sunlight permeated the air of the great hall; drifted, settled around the trim mustachioed man who sat alone oiling twin argent pistols at the round oak table in a far corner of room. He coughed; it was a dry season, and the air of the northern counties, it was said, was not good for the lungs. "That's truly amazing craftsmanship, Lord Tristan," said Gilbert the falconer, pulling a chair from an adjoining table, "though given your reputation as a duelist, I'm surprised to see you carrying firearms. They're notoriously unreliable; do you actually trust them?"

Flint gray eyes shifted up to meet his gaze and held it, unwavering, until the falconer looked away; experienced hands traced elegant scrollwork up to sights set along the barrel of one of the guns. "I trust them with my life," he said. "If you care for your tools, they'll be there when the time comes to use them. We have a forge on Orm, the western isle that turns out hundreds like these each month, and the sulfur springs nearby make for high-grade powder. These pistols knew a master's touch; as weapons they are peerless."

"That... may have some bearing," Gilbert said, swallowing nervously; "tell me, what do you think of the new king?"



"He's worn the crown but a week; so far he seems a most capable and proactive monarch, if a somewhat heavy-handed one."



"You should know I come by way of Alistair, cousin of Dormot, and several of the other advisors," the falconer said.



"I wasn't aware there had been a meeting of advisors," said the other man. "Tell me, what business does the cousin of the old king have with Tristan, Duke of Isles?"



"It was not, ah, an official meeting," Gilbert replied, "but that is only fitting, as Torak continues to deny our requests to form an official House of Lords."



“Ah,” Tristan said, settling back in his seat; “I believe I understand now.”



The falconer looked around nervously before leaning forward a bit and speaking in a low tone. “A king who denies a House of Lords is a king who cares not for the nobility of the land.”



“I see,” Lord Tristan replied. “I fail to see why this would concern me.”



“Your voice will not be heard by Torak, you and your people are subject to his whims. All the nations troubles in the hands of one man? How is this eve logical?”



“I say let him have it,” Tristan said, his grey eyes showing a lack of interest in the subject. “That’s less to worry about.”



“Don’t be a fool, Lord Tristan. If he fails to recognize the rightful place of nobility, how long will it be before he fails to recognize the rights to taxes, to land, to lineage? These are not minor ramblings of jealous nobles, this is a serious concern,” Gilbert explained.



Tristan remained silent for a while, considering the falconers words.



“I must ask you, Lord Tristan… Where will you stand?”



* * *


(TAG: Ves)

[Vesnic]

Mustering all his courage, Torak demanded, "Who dares to commit such disgrace against a Prince of the Realm?"

The raspy breathing continued, regular and slow and menacing.

"Show yourself this instant!" Torak shouted again, his voice failing as the last syllable caught in his throat.

"Very well," hissed the voice, laughing a little as the cavern filled with a thick violet smoke. Torak shielded his eyes against the stinging bright light. Opening them slowly, he found himself face to face with a malevolent little gnome who sat grinning up at him from his place on a large flat boulder. Torak at once had to stifle a laugh. So much turbulence caused by such a silly-looking little creature? He had half a mind to slay him then and there, but the gnome caught sight of the flicker in his eyes and snapped preemptively,

"My dear Prince, you are in no position to resist me."

"Who are you and what do you want?"

"I am Prostu, the most cunning and, dare I say, evil, creature in the kingdom! You, my dear Prince, are in graaaaaave danger!"

"Why would I want anything to do with you?"

"Oh, it's not about what you want. You see, my arch-rival in wizardry is now leading a plot to overthrow your kingdom and it would be most disappointing to me if he were to prove his skill with such a grand scheme! My most self-righteous and fussy prince, you may not like me, but one must fight fire with fire, isn't that so?"

(TAG: Usoki)

[Usoki]

"If you say so, gnome."

"Ooh, but I do!" cackled Prostu. "In fact, I suspect that you are being possessed by a shadow wraith, even as we speak! If you don't let me help you, it'll have complete control over your body by the end of the week."

"Fascinating," said Torak, looking around for his horse. "But, I feel I should warn you about something, friend gnome. Caerse always told me not to take advice from mysterious woodland creatures."

"What!? No!" cried Prostu, losing what little composure he had. "Good grief, boy, can't you even pretend to put up a fight against the evil in your body!?" But it was no use- Torak had already left.

________________________________


And so, that was how the evil gnome Prostu found himself in the court of Lord Tristan. Not as a warlock raining destruction down upon the castle, but as an ambassador of good will. After all, someone had to explain King Torak's new, more menacing personality.

(Tag: DEP)

[Usoki]

Contest is over. 'Tis bump time.