Genesis of Idea for Novel: Need Imput!
Prologue
She shakes her head, a little sadly. "No," she states, "He was a King of Men--but not a man of kings." As she has done, on other occasions, she pauses and waits for her words to sink in. She looks out at the crowd gathered in the sun-filled piazza, wondering if they truly understand the impact of her words. They titter nervously, uncertain of her carefully constructed phraseology. She looks out at the crowd again from underneath her black hood, searching their faces, hoping to catch sight of one face she knows, instinctively, she will never see again. A phantom seems to dance before her eyes, enveloping her in a sense of immense and incomprehensible grief.
She sees him as he was that fated day. She can see the flashing of his sword at his waist, the gleam of the silver fastenings on his armour, the sad, intelligent grey eyes set in amongst smooth, high cheekbones, an aquiline nose--the mark of nobility--though he came from peasant stock--his beard, flecked already with the telltale signs of age, and his proud, erect stance that he always bore himself with. She remembers handing him a nosegay, hands trembling with fear. She wonders, now, whether he knew his destiny on that day--that terrible day.
She looks over at the body, so high above the milling crowd, lying in repose, his hands clutching his sword and shield in his sleep of death. Her eyes trace his profile, the lean body, the smooth cropped head. She lowers her eyes--she cannot bear the overwhelming grief that threatens to overpower her--and she feels a tear trickle down her cheek. But she has to be strong, she cannot lose her composure. The populace require her to be strong--not just for their sake, but also for hers. She knows that if she gives in she will go insane with grief and be deemed unfit for ruling. For that is what she is--a ruler. A queen. She mourns her king of kings, though he was never thus crowned whilst alive. She feels a hand on her shoulder, and knows who it is. She can smell the familiar spiced perfume of one of her attendants.
"My lady?" It is a hesitant voice, soft, melodious. She turns, can see the old, lined face and neatly coiffed grey hair. She manages a small twist of the lips that barely passes as a smile.
“I am fine, Treasa,” she states firmly, inviting no further questions.
The crowd is silent. Their queen is in mourning for her king. A chivalrous man, who would never have the morning sun kiss his brow, a man who defended their country to the death. It would be many a year before another king came along-another one strong enough to rule wisely and fairly. A man would come to sit on the throne when everyone else thought it long-gone and empty from the line of kings….
Chapter One
Along the road, the peasants trudged, sacks slung over their backs, their bellies empty. They’d been travelling the weary road for days, their stomachs grumbling, growling. They were headed to the city to find work, money to feed their famine-struck families, for skins to trade and bread to buy and sell. They were a motley assortment. From those who’d come from as far as the northern port of Gathka, to those who’d come from the village of Dath. They were all headed to the Imperial City of Godin, hoping that there were jobs and shelter there. The drought the year before had devastated the wheat and rye crops, the ground hard and dusty. They needed rain, and they needed it soon. If not, the famine which had already struck families to the north, to the villages surrounding Gathka, would kill them and their families. The livestock had already suffered. Some of the peasants had died-their party had been larger when they’d set out three moons ago. Then there was one, a lone man standing behind the others, dressed in the cowl and brown tunic of a monk. He stood alone, distanced from the band of peasants that continued on, looking out from underneath his dark cowl.
Father Namnel. He was known as that in the monastery, where he was a high-ranked monk of the L’vine faith. Older than most, Namnel was on his way to Godin to deliver a missive to another high-ranked priest in the order. If he hadn’t been lucky to chance across these peasants headed the same way as him, he may have had great difficulty in reaching the Imperial City.
The basic outline would be similar in some ways to the premise of Aragorn in Lord of the Rings, wherein as the story unfolds, Father Namnel becomes more and more important. (He's Chris in disguise ;))
She shakes her head, a little sadly. "No," she states, "He was a King of Men--but not a man of kings." As she has done, on other occasions, she pauses and waits for her words to sink in. She looks out at the crowd gathered in the sun-filled piazza, wondering if they truly understand the impact of her words. They titter nervously, uncertain of her carefully constructed phraseology. She looks out at the crowd again from underneath her black hood, searching their faces, hoping to catch sight of one face she knows, instinctively, she will never see again. A phantom seems to dance before her eyes, enveloping her in a sense of immense and incomprehensible grief.
She sees him as he was that fated day. She can see the flashing of his sword at his waist, the gleam of the silver fastenings on his armour, the sad, intelligent grey eyes set in amongst smooth, high cheekbones, an aquiline nose--the mark of nobility--though he came from peasant stock--his beard, flecked already with the telltale signs of age, and his proud, erect stance that he always bore himself with. She remembers handing him a nosegay, hands trembling with fear. She wonders, now, whether he knew his destiny on that day--that terrible day.
She looks over at the body, so high above the milling crowd, lying in repose, his hands clutching his sword and shield in his sleep of death. Her eyes trace his profile, the lean body, the smooth cropped head. She lowers her eyes--she cannot bear the overwhelming grief that threatens to overpower her--and she feels a tear trickle down her cheek. But she has to be strong, she cannot lose her composure. The populace require her to be strong--not just for their sake, but also for hers. She knows that if she gives in she will go insane with grief and be deemed unfit for ruling. For that is what she is--a ruler. A queen. She mourns her king of kings, though he was never thus crowned whilst alive. She feels a hand on her shoulder, and knows who it is. She can smell the familiar spiced perfume of one of her attendants.
"My lady?" It is a hesitant voice, soft, melodious. She turns, can see the old, lined face and neatly coiffed grey hair. She manages a small twist of the lips that barely passes as a smile.
“I am fine, Treasa,” she states firmly, inviting no further questions.
The crowd is silent. Their queen is in mourning for her king. A chivalrous man, who would never have the morning sun kiss his brow, a man who defended their country to the death. It would be many a year before another king came along-another one strong enough to rule wisely and fairly. A man would come to sit on the throne when everyone else thought it long-gone and empty from the line of kings….
Chapter One
Along the road, the peasants trudged, sacks slung over their backs, their bellies empty. They’d been travelling the weary road for days, their stomachs grumbling, growling. They were headed to the city to find work, money to feed their famine-struck families, for skins to trade and bread to buy and sell. They were a motley assortment. From those who’d come from as far as the northern port of Gathka, to those who’d come from the village of Dath. They were all headed to the Imperial City of Godin, hoping that there were jobs and shelter there. The drought the year before had devastated the wheat and rye crops, the ground hard and dusty. They needed rain, and they needed it soon. If not, the famine which had already struck families to the north, to the villages surrounding Gathka, would kill them and their families. The livestock had already suffered. Some of the peasants had died-their party had been larger when they’d set out three moons ago. Then there was one, a lone man standing behind the others, dressed in the cowl and brown tunic of a monk. He stood alone, distanced from the band of peasants that continued on, looking out from underneath his dark cowl.
Father Namnel. He was known as that in the monastery, where he was a high-ranked monk of the L’vine faith. Older than most, Namnel was on his way to Godin to deliver a missive to another high-ranked priest in the order. If he hadn’t been lucky to chance across these peasants headed the same way as him, he may have had great difficulty in reaching the Imperial City.
The basic outline would be similar in some ways to the premise of Aragorn in Lord of the Rings, wherein as the story unfolds, Father Namnel becomes more and more important. (He's Chris in disguise ;))