Crumbling Crown [Hault! -ed]

Chapter One - Crimson Knight

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Light use of blood and violence in the text, nothing overly disgusting, but enough to keep the story as real as possible. Any who saw what I had written here before, I'm just going to use this book as the on-going first book works. Thanks for reading!

Tommy. 

A dark figure moved swiftly through the moonlit forest, passing trees towered above him to cast their shadowy grandeur on the breathless man. The ground shook as his steps took place, lifeless leaves springing up with every bound ending in a crash, sprinkling moisture off their bodies as they reached the climax of their journey. His desperation for air created short raspy sips for oxygen, the hoarse intake of cool midnight wind scorching at his dry throat. Dirt flew up from beneath his movement as he made his way to the pale outline of an eerie fort in the close distance. The man darted like an animal, silhouette of his thickening shadow gaining speed on him as they passed a flickering torch, then dissipating back into the nocturnal. The light splashes of downpour trailed across the man’s leathery face, trickling down through the cracks and wrinkles of his aged complexion, to become lost in the dark bristles growing from his chin. Night veiled the man’s face, his hood held firmly by the cow’s hide separating his greasy hair from the cloth that adorned his drenched outfit. The rain was consistent, creating small puddles to meet the harsh beatings of his boots, droplets fleeing upwards away from the tragic encounters.

The pale walls became a series of large stone structures as the man approached, slowing down to a paced walk. Taking a well-deserved tremendous gulp for restoration, the hooded figure made his way toward the battered doors held strong between the cemented blockades. The path in front of him was well used, grass void from the dug in earth indented before the sudden step up to the entrance. “Open the gates, Gerard has arrived!” a voice sung out through the empty air, resulting in a slight chuckle from the old man. “Silence and anonymity is our way of life, young one” the words pounding against the insides of his withered pipes. Gerard entered the welcoming doors, glad to receive shelter from the hissing spits of the grey clouds above.

As Gerard entered the glowing hall, an elderly woman awaited him, standing idly in a doorframe, rested against the hard wooden outline. “I could smell your wounds festering as soon as you entered the forest” spoke the woman, pushing off of the wall and emerging from the gloomy position she had taken. Slowly, she approached him, her face becoming visible, eyes glistening from the flames lighting the hollow halls. “Agatha, you need not tend to me, I am fine. I must speak to Thames” the woman ignored him, tracing her sharp talons beneath several small gashes in Gerard’s robes, swelling up with dark red liquid, threatening to drip down onto the stainless floor. “He left for Feinhart days ago, while you sung merry songs in the Doreithian Inn” finally finding her soft point, suddenly piercing her finger into Gerard’s flesh, making him grimace at the tremendous pain she was inflicting. “Hold still, child” forcing her finger to remain within Gerard’s broken skin, despite his attempts to shake her off. Retrieving her bloodied hand from his back, Agatha retreated back to her domain, satisfied with her mending abilities, despite how odd they may have been. Gerard flexed his back muscles, feeling no pain returned from them.

Gerard entered his room, a bleak atmosphere encased between four walls. A wooden bed was pushed against the wall, animal pelts draped across it to cushion the hard night’s trials. Gerard unsheathed his blades, and tossed them onto his desk, the metal clanking together as they tumbled to the far edge, resting soundly just before reaching the possibility of falling off. Kicking his boots off, he swept away his robes in a single movement, turning around to place it on a  stand hidden behind where the door would safeguard, if were open. He dressed himself in a simple white sleeveless shirt, and leather pants, securing the buttons, before walking to his desk. He looked at the large array of parchments, books, quills and ink bottles scattered across his indoor working field. Picking up a long quill, which looked as boring as the state of his chamber, he fell down onto his chair, grabbing a specific piece of paper, decorated with fancy symbols meant onto to be read by an assassin eye. Dipping and reclaiming the writing tip of the quill in the pot, the sinister black goo trying to remain on the catalyst with all the strength it carried, he polished it off with a rough signature, placing the quill back down on the table, ink dripping into a little puddle which inched slowly toward the holes caused by wood-tunnelers.