Niccaree: installment 1
He stood regally before the open window. His shining armor only complimented his strong, manly figure. His posture hinted at his noble birth, but it was the gentle way his face was set that endeared him to everyone around him. He stood with his hand resting on the hilt of his longsword, idly fingering the sapphire embedded into the hilt. His muscles rippled softly under the dark grey tunic, which kept his sweat from tarnishing the beautiful, decorative armor. He did not sweat profusely, but wearing such armor did make him a little uncomfortable. He preferred to don more comfortable clothes, like the forest garb he would wear while hiking or the soft but tough leather of field armor. However, this ceremony called for all the formalities due a returning champion. All of the dukes of the land were expected to be present, including that of the largest duchy in the whole of Solaris. Benn, Duke of Nettlewood, the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom of Solaris and the one least apt to be seen amidst society, felt restless.
He had been reading the prophecies of late, and several of them still itched the back of his mind. For instance, one read, “And the famine of heart shall sweep across the land when the sun rises from the ashes. All light shall be lost in the darkness until a thread is found in one who wields the sapphire and silver.” This prophecy especially scratched at his eyes, the cool hilt of his sword evidence of the prophecy's possibilities. Only three swords of this kind had been made by old Seren, the greatest sword-maker of the sixth century, the last one to know the ancient magic to lay against the blade. Benn did not know what stones were inlaid in the hilts of the other two swords, but his held a large, finely shaped sapphire, though the stone had a flaw in the center, put there after an especially rough drunken fight by his great-uncle many years before. The sword, named Niccaree, had been passed down to Benn, the only male heir left of the Nettlewood family.
Fingering the cold stone again, Benn heaved a sigh, wishing he could just slip away from the ceremonies and go back to the quiet of the forest, where he could study the prophecies more in depth without disturbance.
He had been reading the prophecies of late, and several of them still itched the back of his mind. For instance, one read, “And the famine of heart shall sweep across the land when the sun rises from the ashes. All light shall be lost in the darkness until a thread is found in one who wields the sapphire and silver.” This prophecy especially scratched at his eyes, the cool hilt of his sword evidence of the prophecy's possibilities. Only three swords of this kind had been made by old Seren, the greatest sword-maker of the sixth century, the last one to know the ancient magic to lay against the blade. Benn did not know what stones were inlaid in the hilts of the other two swords, but his held a large, finely shaped sapphire, though the stone had a flaw in the center, put there after an especially rough drunken fight by his great-uncle many years before. The sword, named Niccaree, had been passed down to Benn, the only male heir left of the Nettlewood family.
Fingering the cold stone again, Benn heaved a sigh, wishing he could just slip away from the ceremonies and go back to the quiet of the forest, where he could study the prophecies more in depth without disturbance.