Private Tales A Dream Straying in Daylight

[Ryna]

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The Magician King

A weaver of magic,

Able to fetter a soul.

A Fate doomed to be tragic,

Unable to become whole.​

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Near the Gulf of Ryt, there was a Kingdom left standing because they groveled the best out of everyone else. Mothal never showed mercy, but a pact shrouded in blood and magic had been made. Generations of royal blood would bear a burden, a sacrifice that only a father and son would know, unable to speak aloud. The burden passed through generations until it finally fell on one golden prince.

He donned the gold sun crown and sat upon the grand marble throne. He would not bow to Mothal and would no longer carry the burden. His father had a plan he could not execute, but knew the golden prince could. Skilled enchanters and diviners brought forth the beings of magic and bound them to the crown. But these creatures needed to be kept alive and well. The Magician King had them slumber and dream as he hoarded their power for the inevitable war to come.

Neither human nor beast, yet a docile pet, the Court Sorcerer was to keep the Dreamers alive for as long as she lived, letting the golden crown retain its power. Alongside the golden crown, she too was passed down from one Magician King to the next, each king dying quicker than the last. After one ruthless man, the woman who watched the dreamers ran, seeing a nightmare within the golden crown. She was chased, battered, and hunted.

When she appeared amongst the thick mist around Crobhear Lake, wyld life left her alone, though scavengers remained nearby. They trailed after her like a long, white veil that belonged to a most loved bride. They circled her at night and came close when she shut her eyes for too long. Peace alluded her, now hunted by mages and mercenaries, bears and vultures. She had once mediated between nature and humanity, but now, both saw her as only something to take and have.

 

[Jhyrack]

The upward swing of the hammer came with remarkable speed. It didn't cut the air like a sword. It barely made a sound. Right up until it struck the orc underneath her jaw, that was.

The crack rang out. There was no more noise after she collapsed. A single, fatal blow. Jhyrrack set the haft of his hammer on the ground and leaned on it.

He stood in the middle of an orc scouting party. What had been a scouting party. All four were dead. His broad chest rose and fell slowly. He had barely warmed himself up before the fight was done.

Like many that had come before, they had assumed him to be a slow, lumbering beast. They had been better scouts than fighters. Which was why they had to die. They had found their quarry.

He had been following them to let them do the hard work.

“You are not a worthy chase,” he said.
For the coin on offer, he had expected a great mage or terrifying shape shifter.

Instead he stood before something frail and exhausted. From the curved hunting knife on the ground, he expected one of the orcs had planned to put it out of its misery and keep the head.

He might have done the same, but he had been told to bring it back alive.

“Can you walk?”

 

[Ryna]

A head heavy with horns had turned to look at the deep voice that declared her unworthy. She saw the curved knife before her, which, in the hands of an orc, had made her whimper and plead for mercy. Now, it seemed like her only salvation. She raised her head to someone who initially seemed her savior, but Ryna had been on the run for months.

He only wanted to eliminate his competition, like yesterday's black bear chasing off a great vulture that had gotten too close to her. Limpid blue eyes took one look at his face, arching her neck all the way back to see the two large horns that sprouted from the swath of crimson hair that hung over impossibly broad shoulders.

Another like her? No, there was no tang or salt of magic in the air. She looked back at the hunting knife, eyes quickly darting back to the scarred face. Hands pawed at the ground, gripping grass and damp earth as she shifted from her side onto her knees, head lowered so she could confirm the hunting knife hadn’t disappeared.

“I can walk.” Her soft voice, once gentle and suited for soothing melodies alongside a harp or lyre, was now hoarse and gruff. Her bare toes dug into the ground, and Ryna started to rise, slowly and unsteadily. She took a deep breath, paused as she did so, and then launched herself towards the hunting knife with an outstretched hand.