Creation II:
SEVENTH NIGHT
1st July, A.D. 1338
Medieval Europe, Hundred Years War
The cry of a horse cut through the night.
The steed panted, barely able to catch its breath. Its weary hooves clicked against the broken cobblestone road, echoing away into the void of nighttime. Beads of silver sweat, running down its flexing muscles, glinted off the round moon. Yet it galloped on, both horse and rider seeming to share the same and only thought -- to get the news back as soon as possible.
About a week before, a man came to the King, claiming to know of a weapon so great it will guarantee victory in the recent and future wars. He showed the King a half torn book, containing the ancient secret to the weapon, and a rusty dagger with a single giant ruby encrusted in the middle of the hilt. In his bold speech he sworn that the other half of the book, containing the most important spell of all, could be found at an altar, where a special ritual was to be performed and raise the weapon.
Both the Court and the King was curious. And so the Knight and others were sent to search do the supposed ‘altar’. After all, if it really were true they would have gained a powerful weapon. If it wasn't, well, the Court will certainly have a good laugh as the man faces the ultimate consequence of lying to the King.
But now he has found it. The Altar of Blood.
With one last whine the horse leapt through the Court gates, hooves collapsing beneath it, throwing the Knight onto the ground. Scrambling, the he got up, heading towards a patch of garden where the King’s most trusted adviser stood, facing the
endless darkness that stretched towards the night.
But as he approached, the Knight felt the blood drain from his face:
The man who brought forth the idea of the Altar and the weapon lay dead at the Adviser’s heels, executed. An ugly gash upon his chest, slicing through a family crest of the heron, wings raised in flight, into half.
The Adviser turned at the footsteps, eyes wide as they saw the Knight before them. Realising why the Knight was here, the Adviser’s face paled too. In hushed words they announced how they shall report to the King, and gather a group to the Altar, to perform the ritual, seven days later.
But neither noticed the shadow that detached itself from the dark to listen on their words, eyes gleaming with mischief beneath the hood. It watched the departing party, then looked down at the corpse at their feet, colourless eyes staring blankly at the sky.
“I won't let you have that so easily.”
A cry of a nightingale broke out as the shadow slunk back into the night again, off to report this to their fellow spies.
SEVENTH NIGHT
1st July, A.D. 1338
Medieval Europe, Hundred Years War
The cry of a horse cut through the night.
The steed panted, barely able to catch its breath. Its weary hooves clicked against the broken cobblestone road, echoing away into the void of nighttime. Beads of silver sweat, running down its flexing muscles, glinted off the round moon. Yet it galloped on, both horse and rider seeming to share the same and only thought -- to get the news back as soon as possible.
About a week before, a man came to the King, claiming to know of a weapon so great it will guarantee victory in the recent and future wars. He showed the King a half torn book, containing the ancient secret to the weapon, and a rusty dagger with a single giant ruby encrusted in the middle of the hilt. In his bold speech he sworn that the other half of the book, containing the most important spell of all, could be found at an altar, where a special ritual was to be performed and raise the weapon.
Both the Court and the King was curious. And so the Knight and others were sent to search do the supposed ‘altar’. After all, if it really were true they would have gained a powerful weapon. If it wasn't, well, the Court will certainly have a good laugh as the man faces the ultimate consequence of lying to the King.
But now he has found it. The Altar of Blood.
With one last whine the horse leapt through the Court gates, hooves collapsing beneath it, throwing the Knight onto the ground. Scrambling, the he got up, heading towards a patch of garden where the King’s most trusted adviser stood, facing the
endless darkness that stretched towards the night.
But as he approached, the Knight felt the blood drain from his face:
The man who brought forth the idea of the Altar and the weapon lay dead at the Adviser’s heels, executed. An ugly gash upon his chest, slicing through a family crest of the heron, wings raised in flight, into half.
The Adviser turned at the footsteps, eyes wide as they saw the Knight before them. Realising why the Knight was here, the Adviser’s face paled too. In hushed words they announced how they shall report to the King, and gather a group to the Altar, to perform the ritual, seven days later.
But neither noticed the shadow that detached itself from the dark to listen on their words, eyes gleaming with mischief beneath the hood. It watched the departing party, then looked down at the corpse at their feet, colourless eyes staring blankly at the sky.
“I won't let you have that so easily.”
A cry of a nightingale broke out as the shadow slunk back into the night again, off to report this to their fellow spies.
