So I looked at the last time I posted on here and my eyes nearly bugged out of my head. More than a month! I could slap myself for being so lazy! Oh well, I'm pretty sure that's physically impossible anyways.
So things are going smoothly with my books...I got down quite a few pages over break, although not as many as I'd hoped, but I still am happy with the quality. I might post some, even; although only a few short segmants because I don't want anybody stealing my work and claiming it's theirs. Although, I'd like to see somebody try and win a lawsuit with me, considering I have all the early scripts and such anyways XD
So, without further adeau...I present to you --The Paper King!
-The province of Veronia, England-
September 13th, 1431
Metallic boots clamored on solid oak floor planks, propelling their armor clad occupants as fast as they could run. Twelve men raced down a torch-lit corridor, ten of them in shining suits of armor; the last of the royal guards of the castle, abandoning their posts in a last ditch effort to win the battle that raged outside the stone walls. Their men were being slaughtered out there—an hour earlier forces led by Tybalt Valentian, the general and military advisor to the king, had gone to fight the approaching Averleigh army. Word from a mortally wounded messenger had confirmed the Kings worst fears; their forces had been pushed back much too far, and soon enough the enemy would be upon them.
Veronia had been at war with the Averleins for over twenty years now; long ago the funds of the Veronian kingdom had run dry and the king had called upon its neighboring kingdom for aid. They racked up a hefty debt, 20 million pounds in all, and, fifteen years later had repaid them. Or so they thought. Three days after the sum had been sent by armed caravan to Averleigh, the Averlein King Sent word to Veronia that the money had never reached their kingdom. They claimed that the Veronians still owed them, however the Veronians knew very well that they had paid their dues already. They determined that the Averlein King had gotten the money and killed the deliverers, then told Veronia they had never been paid in order to get twice as much as they were owed. An inflated interest that the Veronians had no means to pay and were certainly not willing to pay. The Veronians would not give into this corrupt monarchy to the west, and the Averleins would not give into the treacherous liars to the east. And so, they went to war.
Leading the last battalion of men to the castle doors was the young King, Julius Benedict Pembrooke, himself only being the age of nineteen. His Father, the late King Theodore Leonitus Pembrooke had died three years ago of the plague, his adopted daughter Victoria Marie dying shortly after, leaving only his son to carry on the crown. This was his father’s war, and he was determined to win it.
Julius and his sister, six years younger than he, had been in part raised by Tybalt; their father was often very busy, being what he was. Tybalt had taught Julius everything he knew about sword fighting ever since Julius could remember. His happiest days were spent with Tybalt in the barracks, relentlessly going at each other for hours on end. Tybalt was a father figure, mentor, and a friend. A strange relationship at best, but they were basically inseparable. They drank together, ate together, trained together, and even visited the royal cemetery together. They could not possibly be closer.
Julius ran as fast as he could go down the hall, which was quite fast actually, because he really was the opposite of the royal stereotype; he trained regularly and even led his troops in battle from the front lines. His golden hair streamed in its usual ponytail style as he ran, a determined fire burning in his amber eyes. He had a slight figure, but was very muscular underneath his scarlet blouse and flying green cape. This was his father’s war; his war; his people’s war. He would fight it out till the very end even if it killed him; never give in; his morals were far greater than most men twice his age—watching your family die before your very eyes did that sort of thing to you. That and he had been raised quite well by both Tybalt and his father. He would be ever the gentleman, sweet to the ladies, friend to the men, and upholder of justice to the criminals.
Behind the brigade of soldiers ran a man in regal finery; flowing purple cape and a green tunic accented with gold embroidery. A purple gem hung around his neck and glistened in the torch-light as he went. A mop of short dark brown hair flew in his haste. His name was Artemis Valentene; he was a prepice: a witch employed by royalty to be a weapon of war; he had been himself unsure of this battle--that is, not quite sure which side he was fighting for anymore. This war was the war that had torn him away from his true love, his home, his life… this whole time he had been wearing a mask, hiding himself from them, hiding what he was… an angel of revenge…he had promised himself that long ago, not just for him but for her as well.
Myra…
Looking ahead at the soldiers it dawned on him how pointless this was. They were all going to die, even Julius. The Julius who had been his friend for three years now, who bought him drinks every Friday at the Boars Head…who’d set him free and even given him a job, yes… but Julius’ father…oh God, how he loathed his father. So many cold nights… pointed threats…Damn that man. Damn them all. Artemis was antagonized day after day that his tormentor had not died by his hands…he’d so wanted to crush the life out of him…But he’d died of the Black plague before Artemis been released from imprisonment by the King’s newly crowned son. He could remember when he’d been captured in the midst of battle; knocked unconscious by blows to the back of the head by the blunt end of the Veronian soldiers swords… he’d woken up bound and gagged in the bowels of the very castle he was now pretending to protect. He’d seen his face then…that was the only time he could remember…that he’d taken off the blindfold…
-Veronia, the dungeons-
-1423 (the past)-
He’d woken up with the taste of blood in his mouth; evidently he’d bit his tongue when he’d been bludgeoned from behind…He couldn’t see anything, and for a moment he feared that the hit had rendered him blind, but when he found that his hands were tied behind him he realized what must’ve happened. He couldn’t speak either; a cloth soaked with his blood filled his mouth preventing him from saying anything. He wasn’t able to move at all, really.
He felt like a wild horse that had suddenly been caught; saddle thrown over its back, bit forced into its mouth and blinders placed around it’s head.
Artemis waited for what seemed like hours for something to happen, and, eventually something did. He heard a door open and close; the sound of footsteps drew closer and closer to him; then abruptly stopped. There was a tiny click and then the man was upon him. He was dragged to his feet and shoved up against the stone cold wall. He could sense what was coming; he knew that he was an infallible resource of information regarding the Averlein military… It was a good assumption that he was going to be interrogated. After all, why else would they keep him alive?
The man lifted the blindfold off his face. From what Artemis could see, he was quite obviously an important individual; he wore maroon regalia that spoke well of his finances. He looked gruff enough to be an interrogator; neat brown hair and a stern, strong face. The ends of his sideburns turned to stubble and ran down his face, forming a trim goatee on his lightly pronounced chin.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
Artemis still had the gag in his mouth, so he could only nervously shake his head in silent answer.
“I am Theodore Pembrooke.” He said.
“…and you are going to tell me everything you know.”
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