Alright. Here you go, few followers that I have!
I'm officially changing my handle. No longer shall I be Icefurr. I am . . . (This is going to sound abnormally geeky) WhiteFire! Alrighty, now, see ya . . . but I'm not changing the site's URL. Bye! “Ms. Letren, you must tell us what you’re doing here!” Santena insisted, standing next to a bed in the castle infirmary. Kaytlen was awake now, but as silent as she’d been when she was unconscious. The stubborn fox shook her head furiously. The black wolf sighed. Why couldn’t these Westerners make things easy for once?
“Why did you leave your father, Kaytlen?” Gethnoel asked gently. She held up for another few seconds, then finally broke down crying. Through her sobs, she managed to give an account. After she had refused to marry Gethnoel, and he had agreed, her father had become furious. In his rage, he had locked his daughter in her room for a full day with no water or food, intending the hunger to drive her to concur with his wishes. When that didn’t work, he had her beaten the next day. The lashes still stung her back as she told Santena and his king that she’d hoped for sanctuary here, and had run away to Karenian. “You’re the . . . only creatures . . . who have ever shown . . . me kindness,” she wept. Gethnoel took her up in his arms and held her. She didn’t even resist the comforting affection. Gethnoel pulled away for a moment. “General Ironpaw, who was attacking her when you found her?” Santena knew that his king was serious, now. Whenever he used a formal title, he meant what he said. “Old Clandon warriors, your Majesty!” He came smartly to attention. In the silence, he audibly heard Gethnoel’s teeth gritting. Santena continued his report. “Two dark-furred otters, carrying traditional Old Clandon weaponry and wearing assassin’s cloaks, sir! My apprentice and I caught them kidnapping her from beside the south wall.” He saluted, as was tradition for formal reports. Gethnoel stood, went to the at ease position, and nodded sharply. “General, meet me in the council room. The larger one, and bring your apprentice,” the king ordered. Santena signaled Ithiniel and two maidservants. The maids rushed to take care of Kaytlen as Santena marched out of the infirmary, followed closely by his apprentice. Fifteen minutes later, the general finally found the council room. He’d lived here for a year, and still didn’t know how to navigate this infernally large castle! Ithiniel had gotten lost somewhere, though, but ended up beating his master to the hall. He sat at the end of the table, next to King Swiftblade and three or four of his Majesty’s closest councilors. Santena sat down next to his younger counterpart, who was grinning cheekily at the general. “Wipe that smile off your face, Ithiniel. You’re working the obstacle course after this,” Santena growled. The smile fell away instantly. “My good councilors,” Gethnoel began. “This ‘Old Clandon’ business has grown out of paw. We must do something to stop it.” One lord raised his paw. “Yes, Earl Fent?” “What intelligence do we have on the matter?” the ermine asked wisely. “We can’t just rush into things.” “Exactly right, my good friend! General, what have your searches uncovered about his clan?” Gethnoel turned to his bodyguard. “Nothing much, but we have managed to find out that their most likely main camp is on the edge of the Mountainous Lands. Talk increases farther away from that point, making it obvious that the common folk are too scared. To say too much, that is,” he added. “They all use the same type of weapons: curved daggers and swords, no long-distance. All wear black assassin’s cloaks, dark tunics, leather vests, and one of these.” He held up a badge of black cloth, divided in half by a white stripe. “Nobody knows, though, what their hierarchy or leadership system is.” “Thank you. Fent, did that answer your question? May I continue?” The earl inclined his head in the positive. “Thank you.” Once more, he turned to Santena and Ithiniel. “General, I want you to choose a score of strong, fast soldiers from our army. Preferably the ones who didn’t come from Northwind’s horde, though. Take them, leaving Ithiniel behind, and I would like you to find the main hideout of the Old Clandon clan.” “With all due respect, Highness, why leave my apprentice behind? He’s the most powerful fighter in your military,” Santena added. “He is to replace you while you’re gone.” “He isn’t ready!” the black wolf insisted. Gethnoel looked him in the eyes, the two silver orbs locking with Santena’s black eyes. Finally, the general bowed his head. “Yes, your Highness.” ***** The next day, Santena stood in front of exactly a score of creatures. The front rank of five was all quick hares, then one of foxes, then otters, and the last row was entirely made up of white wolves. All wore standard chainmail and round-top helmets, and each carried a straight sword, by old rebel tradition. “Double time march, soldiers!” the lieutenant under Santena called. All twenty of them jogged at a high pace from the front of the castle, off towards the west where the Mountainous Lands were located. ***** Five hours later, Santena called for a halt. All of them carried lightweight tents and bedrolls, but the general quickly discouraged the use of these. “Only a break for noonday meal. No campfires, not hot meals! Quick, pick it up!” he yelled. The soldiers immediately split up into their respective groups, which in most cases was by animal type. Lieutenant Strend Walker, the fox who’d called out commands first, sat down beside Santena. He had an accent that distinctly reminded Santena of that of those living in the furthest north. “Sir, are we nearin’ yon Western border yet?” he asked. Santena shook his head. “We passed it fifteen minutes ago, Lieutenant. Didn’t you know that? We actually ran right by Highlord Rock.” He took a large bite of some unintelligent bird’s leg. “Pay more attention.” “Aye, sir!” Walker replied sharply. He attempted to salute, but accidently with the paw that held a ripe apple. “Owch . . .” he muttered. Santena laughed. “A little too eager there,” he chuckled, then slapped Walker on the back. “Let’s finish quickly so that we can get this sorry lot on the move again.” They did in another fifteen minutes, then the group was jogging again, armor and mail rattling as they went. Santena’s broadsword bounced at his side as he easily kept up with his troops. For another few hours, they kept an easy, but speedy, pace. Eventually, they stopped again, this time for a longer period of time . . . in fact, the entire night. Santena gave a series of commands to Lieutenant Walker, then retired to his own tent, foregoing supper in favor of sleep. Strend turned to the soldiers and rapped out a series of commands in a lower voice than usual. “A’right, whae cook did we bring? Chalen? Bonny. Get the laddies some food, but nae fires, if’n ye ken what ah mean. Under the Set Treaty between our lands, we should be a’right, as we donnae mean harm, but we donnae want to take nae chances. Old Huffy the Spokesbeast’s huffed hi’sel into a grand ould mood, naow!” This got some chuckles. Tiren Letren was not too popular. He’d been resisting a treaty for two years. Even the Council didn’t like him, but still had to put up with him until . . . well, until he died. “Aye, but he can huff until he’s blue in the face, we don’t care!” a voice called out softly. The soldiers roared with laughter at this, but Walker quickly calmed them down with motions of his paws. “Nae, lads. We do care. By Doran’s almighty grace, we’re filled to thae bonny brim with his Spirit, and we can wish the same for Tiren! Naow, then, cook, get thae food ready!” The soldiers sobered at this, and began to set their tents. Chalen, the cook, moved off some way to prevent the other creatures trying to steal food while he prepared it. The next morning, they were on the move again. ***** Santena held up his paw for the company to stop. “Quiet!” he ordered. “We’ve officially reached the edge of West Region, the border between the Mountainous Lands and the rest of Clandon. Be on the lookout for any trouble, smoke, or Old Clandoners. None of our army have come this far,” he added in a whisper. Strend repeated this to those in the back, and they started to spread out into a wide-spaced line, for less chance of being spotted. All of them had donned white and brown camouflage cloaks. After a long time of waiting and looking as he moved through the tall grass, Walker finally spotted a tell-tale trail of smoke rising into the air farther into the foothills. “There ‘tis!” he murmured, and put both paws in his paws to whistle a bird-call . . . but never got to through the crossbow bolt in his throat. One at a time, bolts started firing from the treetops above. Each was very accurate. The otters and hares, with the least strong hearing, didn’t know it until it was too late. Most of the foxes went down easily, being too distracted with their mission. Only one managed to get out of the forest and dash away across the plains. Wolves have powerful hearing. Santena knew something was wrong when he started hearing distant, muffled cries of pain. Two of his arctic wolves flanked him, about twenty yards away. “Hit the ground!” he whispered, knowing that they would hear. Both looked at him suddenly, then dove into the remaining snowbanks in this warmer weather. Santena quickly fell to the earth, but had a disadvantage: his fur. It was black, standing out against the dead grass and snow. Frantically looking around for cover, he spotted an overhang of large, thick roots covering a hillside. The general waited until the cries silenced, then stood up and made a run for it. A twig snapped in the tree on his near right, and he sped up, narrowly missing being skewered by a razor-sharp little missile. He was almost there! The overhang was ten feet away. Just as he was going into a somersault towards the roots, a bolt whistled from the branches above and stabbed fiercely into his lower back. “Argh!” he cried, but still managed to get in among the roots, covering his bulk as best he could. The black wolf held his breath. Nothing seemed to be moving outside, but he wasn’t going to take any . . . “Oh!” he murmured, stumbling back into a small cave. His glowing eyes determined that it was completely empty, and was made by collapsing dirt and roots long ago. He waited a few more minutes, then decided that the attackers didn’t know where he was. “Now what?” he muttered. Well, first things first: his back wound. He couldn’t very well stand in the small space, but couldn’t sit either, because of the pain, so Santena took a kneeling position. Quickly, he groped in the semi-darkness for his pack. Inside was a first aid kit. The general grabbed this, opened it, rummaged around for a few seconds, then pulled out a pair of small iron tongs. “Oh, Doran, this is going to hurt,” he whispered, then reached back with the tongs. He had to bite down on his armor, hard, to keep from screaming. The bolt was barbed. It tore at his flesh and fur. Finally, he got it out and fell down to the earth. “Damn,” he muttered. ***** Santena had to spend the night in the cave. He had no doubt that somewhere outside was an entire gang of either Old Clandon cultists or West Clandoners, just waiting for any sign of him. So, without any rations or support, he managed to stay up half the night before falling straight to sleep -- on his stomach, of course, as his bandaged back hurt too much. The next morning, he was suddenly awoken by somecreature crashing into the cave. Scrambling as best he could to his paws, Santena ripped his sword from its sheath and grabbed his shield from beside him. “Freeze!” he ordered, holding out the broadsword. The two white wolves did as he said. “State your names, ranks, and guilds!” Walker had picked out all his soldiers, so Santena didn’t really know if these were in his ranks. That was why he asked them for their guilds: nobody outside of Clandoran knew about the new system that seperated the army into guilds, based on their skill strengths. “Second Lieutenant Qentan Mc’Seron, Swiftness Guild, sir!” one whispered fiercely. He certainly looked the part, as he was tall, lean, and appeared as if he could take off at the slightest noise. “Sergeant Driv Vire . . . Force Guild, sir!” the other gasped. He was shorter by half a head and well muscled, but certainly not built for the hard running that he’d obviously been doing. He carried, instead of the typical straight sword, a broadsword like Santena’s. Besides, on his shoulder, he carried a patch with a mace and hammer crossed on it: the symbol of the Force Guild. Santena himself carried a patch with a single star on his shoulder. This symbolized his own guild -- he belonged to the Guild of Instinct. Total, there were five guilds: Swordmasters, Force Guild, Swiftness Guild, Distance Guild, and Guild of Instinct. Swordmasters excelled in all kinds of weaponry, and were mostly naturals. Force Guild were the shock troops of the army. Swiftness Guild were the messengers, spies, and backup infantry, and Distance Guild were the archers, slingers, and crossbow handlers. Those in the Guild of Instinct (there were only about a score) were trained in all the arts of all the other guilds. “Good.” He sat them down on the dirty floor of the cave. Both stripped their helmets off thankfully, sweat clotting in their fur. “How did you manage to escape?” He directed this question to Sergeant Vire. He had no questions for Mc’Seron. “Same as you . . . General.” He pulled off his pack, then chainmail. “Have you . . . eaten?” Santena shook his head. “Well, we can’t have a starving leader,” Mc’Seron joked, and pulled out some biscuits and dried fruit. Santena accepted it gladly, but a thought plagued his mind. What will we do now? Almost all of my stories seem to focus on and around a few things. Light versus dark, the driving out of evil, life expelling death, torment replaced by peace, and other items relating to these. But, I want to ask something: why? Why do I write about these things? It is, of course, about my obvious Christian faith, but something else is there, as well.
What is it? What is the second driving force behind that which pushes me to write tales and compose legends such as mine? The animal thing has nothing to do with it. They only represent the types of men and women in our world. The power that I have some of my characters using only stands in the place of and reveals that spiritual ability that I know I, and many others, wield by God and his Spirit’s authority. It cannot be the thing that I let control my writing. What, then? A need for fighting and action in the mix, maybe. Or, perhaps, that only shows my view on life itself, that life is a constant battle against things that we can and cannot see. I believe that I know what it is. It is the fact that I am scared. Of what, you ask? I am not completely sure, but I know that I want God to drive out the evil through me, wherever I go. I want to let my life be a force to do strong things for him. I want there to be nothing in me to hinder that: pride, selfishness, a wish to belong, self-satisfaction, or anything else of that nature. In short, I want to be “in this world, but not of it”, to quote the Book. I write to show the world this. Of course, as most writers, I’m not an extremely public person as my real self, but under the person of Icefurr, I can demonstrate all that I am for everyone (or everybeast) to see. If you like the typical type of fantasy, with magic and wizards and dragons, then leave. Right now. This is why I don’t write like that: it goes against what I am aiming to accomplish, and it diverts me from my core beliefs. If you are like me, though, and try to balance everything out, then stay. Read as much as you like. Explore my world. It’s good for the right people, but fuel for mockery to the wrong sort. And, yes, I promise to do another story with humans, for those who aren’t into my typical style. Er, I mean, among the four or five followers I have. :D Whoever’s reading this, I’m planning on changing my handle from Icefurr to something different. Any ideas? Comment if you think of something! -Icefurr Santena followed his king towards West Region’s border, where a tall pinnacle of rock shot up towards the sky. Gethnoel had utterly refused anycreature to accompany him besides Santena, and even that precaution was begrudged hesitantly.
The pair walked over the snowy, rocky ground with little difficulty. Santena’s paw rested on his broadsword, ready to draw it if the need arose, but Gethnoel didn’t let any part of him stray anywhere near his sword and shield. Noticing this, Santena protested, “Your Majesty, you must be prepared for anything!” They were nearing Highlord Rock now. “No, I won’t show any sign of hostility,” the king replied evenly. He even wrapped the sword in his cloak! Sometimes, Santena thought, you can be such a royal idiot. Nonetheless, the tall black wolf said nothing. When they arrived, nobeast was on, around, or near the rock. “What the . . .” Santena muttered. “Pompous fool, making us sit here.” Gethnoel rolled his eyes and sat down by the pillar. “You’re just going to wait?” Gethnoel nodded coolly. “You’re not upset?” The king calmly shook his head. Santena huffed, then plopped down beside his king. They sat there, side by side, for about ten minutes. Finally, a trumpet sounded from somewhere on the other side of the rock. Santena jumped up before Gethnoel and dashed around to see. A procession of rabbits and lemmings marched towards the pillar, carrying with them on a high throne a self-important looking fox with bright white floor, a red cloak, and a tall, golden crown. Beside him walked a beautiful young female fox, headfur braided in many strands down her neck and a silver circlet on her brow. She wore no fancy clothes, only a simple tan dress and leather boots with belt. Gethnoel stood behind his general and wrapped himself in his warm grey cloak. He had left his crown at the palace, Santena noted. Again: royal idiot. The general fell back and stood beside his king, drawing his sword and planting the tip in the rocky ground. The Westerners reached Highlord Rock in another two minutes. A little group of mice carried the throne to Santena and set it down in front of him. The prideful fox stood and walked to the general. “I was told that you were a FoxWolf, but perhaps my intelligence was incorrectly gathered,” he sniffed. Santena looked down his nose at Tiren Letren. “I am not King Gethnoel. I am General Santena Ironpaw, and my master stands beside me.” He gestured respectfully towards the shorter FoxWolf beside him. “Where is his crown, and robes?” The pompous fox snorted. “No king wears the garb of a peasant.” He pointed at the grey cloak. Santena looked at Gethnoel, and the king took off his hood. His silver eyes stayed calm. “You doubt that given by Doran?” he asked quietly. Tiren rolled his eyes. One of his servants whispered in his ear, attempting to soothe his ego, but the proud Spokesbeast shrugged her off. “Of course I doubt some make-believe god. Your eyes prove nothing.” Gethnoel quickly became angry. His eyes literally grew brighter, flashing in the light of the grey sky. “Doranfather is anything but false!” he roared, and threw off his cloak. The white and silver of his bright clothes matched Santena’s identically, but for the white hood and fact that his seemed far more brilliant. Santena bowed. Tiren took a full step backwards. “I . . . uh,” he stuttered, then made a valiant attempt to compose himself. “Well . . . it seems that I was mistaken.” He sniffed haughtily. “My most sincere apologies, young man. Shall we continue with our business?” Santena was tempted to explode at the old fool, but Gethnoel had calmed down as rapidly as he had grown enraged. “Yes, we may keep speaking of your wishes for your daughter,” he said. He invited Tiren to sit on the ground. In the keeping of old customs, Gethnoel and Tiren sat cross-legged across from each other, passing back and forth a vial of old, good wine. Once that was done, Letren started talking. Standing at attention behind Gethnoel, Santena got the impression that the fox didn’t care about his daughter, only viewed her as property, had a high opinion of himself, and thought of this whole exchange as a “business opportunity”. In short, everything that he had already gathered about the Spokesbeast from the message. Finally, Gethnoel said something. It was so low that Santena had to strain his ears to hear it. “Let me speak to your daughter.” Somewhat astounded, the Spokesbeast hesitated, then Santena watched as he gestured to a servant, who nodded, ran back to the caravan, and whispered in the princess’s ear. She pointed her nose in the air and shook her head. The fox servant huffed and pushed her along towards the three standing beside the rock. She grudgingly obeyed. The princess stood angrily in front of Gethnoel. She was furious. “What? What do you want, ‘king’?” she demanded. “What is your name?” the king asked softly. She didn’t say anything at first. He repeated the question. “Kaytlen,” she said hesitantly, but still casting furious glances toward her father. “Kaytlen, let me ask you something. Do you want to marry me?” She quickly shook her head. Gethnoel shook his head. “Absolutely! Your wish shall be granted. We won’t get married!” he exclaimed cheerfully, then spun on his heel and walked off towards Karenian, his capital city. Santena stayed for a moment to watch Letren’s reaction. The fox sputtered indignantly, then yelled after Gethnoel, “Don’t turn your back on me, you young pipsqueak!” Gethnoel ignored him and kept walking. “You’ll regret this! Listen to your superiors!” Santena chuckled and jogged after Gethnoel, his chainmail jingling. ***** The next day, while Gethnoel set about planning what to do about the forgotten possibility of a treaty with East Region, Santena was busy someplace else. The castle had been built at the border between North and South Regions, placing it strategically in the way of any war-seeking Westerners or Eastlivers. A temple built to honor Doran, at His command, had been built right beside Karenian. The castle paled in comparison to the golden temple, but it is not here where our story focuses. At the southern edge of the main palace, a small courtyard was spread out. The marble stones were scuffed and dirtied, but this mattered not to those creatures who used it now. Here, Santena fought. He wore a different set of armor: it was black, and had no markings. His visor covered his ears and came forward over his snout. Instead of his broadsword, the wolf wielded a long, thin rapier. It felt odd in his paws, but that was only because he was used to something bigger. Across from him, on the other side of the courtyard, a smaller wolf stood, with the same gear. Both were sweating profusely. “Do you . . . claim a respite, sir?” the other wolf gasped, smirking. Santena shook his head. “I may . . . be ten years your . . . elder, Ithiniel, but I am . . . still your teacher, and can still defeat you with all ease! Still . . . I cannot see why you chose this to train with, of all weapons,” he added. He leaped at the younger wolf, his sword flashing in a dazzling figure eight pattern, then darting forward, flipping Ithiniel’s sword back, and ending on the student’s neck. Santena’s apprentice grinned and dropped his weapon. “Once again, master, you gained the better of me in this engagement,” he admitted ruefully. He and Santena both removed their helmets, sweat dripping from their fur. Ithiniel’s appearance had obviously influenced his name, which meant “light” in the old speech. His fur was blindingly white, the same as Icefurr had left behind when his eyes and fur turned silver. His teeth were also perfectly white, and his eyes were a bright blue. Around his neck hung a pendant in the shape of a flame. Directly contrasting the rest of his attire, at his side, hung his black-steel rapier. His ears perked and turned attentively to everything that his master said. “I saw an opening in your guard. I had left plenty in the way I was holding my sword, but you must learn to look for them!” Santena sighed. His apprentice was still grinning like an idiot. “All right. Pick up your sword, and we’ll do it again. Unless, that is, you claim a respite?” He chuckled at the indignant look on Ithiniel’s face. “Only if you need one, sir! On your guard!” He put his helmet back and picked up his rapier. Santena laughed at the younger wolf’s enthusiasm and stepped back into a defensive position. The pair was about to lock swords, when a scream sounded from outside the courtyard. It came from the south wall! Ithiniel was too startled to do anything. Santena smacked him in the back of the head and dashed to the little wallgate where the scream had sounded from. The black wolf whipped it open, then stepped outside, followed closely by his now alert student. “Who’s there?” Santena called in the dusk light. Two grim-faced hooded otters bearing the Old Clandon symbol on their cloaks were carrying a young female fox away from the castle. Her pretty green eyes were frantic, her limbs thrashing. One of the otters had a dark paw over her mouth, which was already covered by a grey scarf. “Stop! Stop in the name of the king!” Ithiniel shouted, and drew his dark sword, running at the two gang members. Santena followed close behind. At the sudden interruption, the Old Clandoners dropped the fox and drew their own S-curved swords and kite shields. “Stay back, if you know what’s . . .” one started threateningly. Ithiniel stopped him by quickly snaking his flexible blade through both curves of the sword, flicking it out of the otter’s grip, then slicing his throat open. The other otter fared no better. He soon laid on the ground beside his partner, dead by the master’s steel. Santena rushed over to the fox. She laid face-down -- she’d fainted. Santena bent over and picked her up, rolling her over to see her face. “Ma’am, are you alright?” he asked. She didn’t respond through the veil. Santena pulled it down to see her better. “What in Doran’s name . . .!” he exclaimed. Laying in his arms was the Spokesbeast’s daughter, Kaytlen Letren! “To the king!” he ordered Ithiniel, and both hurried back into the castle courtyard. A Note from the Author: Some of you may have wondered: what in the world do all these strangely foreign words mean? Well, here's a dictionary, which has all the words that I've currently used, for Old Clandoranian language. I'll put it up separately in the White King Archive. ithiniel: light. sen: must. Doran: all, or abbreviated form of Doranfather. tiren: cover. akthali: forever. rithna: rule. eqtana: shall. shantali: an ancient greeting. cranathi: darkness. luthen: recede. So, as Icefurr the roleplay geek, I've decided to do something really, really cool, in my opinion.
I'm planning on a making . . . something like a roleplaying game. You heard of the Choose Your Own Adventure series? I'm going to build a Weebly site along those lines, with a bunch of pages all linked to different buttons. The first adventure, of course, will be based in Clandoran, 'cause who doesn't love that place? Apparently a lot of people . . . not a lot of traffic . . . Oh well. It's fun for me! Anyway, be on the lookout for that! (Icefurr’s back, baby! Sorry to anyone who might be reading this about the delay between Shantali and this story. 3 year split.)
The night was cool and clear in Western Clandon. The moon hung bright and full over snowcapped peaks that shone far off, and the long grass waved in the gentle breeze coming down from the Mountainous lands. Trees everywhere swished along with the smaller plants, making their own beautiful song. In a clearing near the edge of the region, shadows flitted back and forth with the moving branches. Almost all of them seemed to move in sync with the others . . . all but two. A quiet form in a black cloak, followed by another figure with its hood up, darted from dark spot to dark spot. Some distance away, a silvery-white fox sat cross-legged. His eyes were closed, and he wore a silvery chest plate, blazing with a white emblem of two paws holding up a crown. A white hood covered the back of his head and let the tip of his snout poke out. Chainmail reached down to his knees, stopping over a pair of white leather boots. His figure was majestic in the moonlight. The two figures didn’t have to see any crown to know that this was a king. His head was bowed, his paws raised, and fervent words were pouring out of his mouth. The two black-cloaked creatures drew flashing silver knives from inside their garments. The fox’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t notice. The would-be assassins crept across the open glade, behind the fox where he couldn’t see them. They froze, then crept a little closer. Soon, they were less than three yards from him. One brought his arm back. The knife glinted in the moonlight. The fox’s ear twitched, and his murmurings silenced. “Die, false king!” the assassin cried, and flung his arm forward. The knife spun through the air. The fox was too quick, though, and rolled out of the way just in time. It sailed harmlessly past. Another knife twisted from the other’s paw, but the king spun his body away, and only suffered a graze on his side. He stood and whipped out his curved sword. Now the three were at a standstill. They were within two yards of each other, and the assassins had no weapons in their paws. Their hoods had fallen from their heads, revealing a brown hare and white fox, somewhat resembling the silver king. However, now that the pair got a better look at him, the two foxes looked quite different. The king was far taller, and his snout and teeth were longer, as was his tail. His paws looked far stronger. A trace of silver ran through his fur, making him seem lit up by moonlight itself. And his eyes shone silver. “What do you want?” he asked in a deep, strong voice. The two assassins stared up at him, mesmerized by his look. Finally, the hare gathered enough courage to say, “A . . . free Clandoran!” He drew his own sword. It was curved, but not like the king’s; the sword bent twice, making the shape of an “s”, and didn’t curve straight from the hilt. His companion also drew his own strange sword, and both rushed at the white king. The Foxwolf crouched, sword at the ready, then sidestepped the hare’s lunge. He followed with a spin and slice down, severing the hare’s paw and leaving him unarmed. The hare screeched in pain and hit the earth. The other fox snatched up the fallen assassin’s sword and leaped at the king, swinging wildly. The king could easily see that he did have skill, though, and dodged the first swipe with some difficulty. He didn’t want to harm the fox. “Stop!” he yelled, but the fox lunged, swung, and finished with a figure eight swipe down towards the white king’s head. The king had no choice. “Cranathi luthen, ithiniel tiren doran!” The words flowed from King Gethnoel Swiftblade the Foxwolf’s mouth. A wave of pure white light rushed from his sword, pushing back the moonlit darkness and slamming forcefully into the fox’s eyes and driving him backwards. He cried out and collapsed to the ground. “Thank you, Doran,” Gethnoel murmured, then moved to tie both assassins up and let them be found by their own. Soon, both were struggling against their own belts, which Gethnoel had used to restrain their paws. “Wait here for your friends to find you,” he ordered. “Why you ‘Old Clandon’ clan members keep trying to kill me has me very confused,” he added, then moved off through the forest. ***** “King Gethnoel, you can’t keep going out without bodyguards, or at least me!” Santena Ironpaw was furious. In the three years since the war on Gulrag Northwind, the Rogue Captain had driven Santena mad with his ventures into West and East Regions. He would go off by himself, to see about a treaty or some other formality, then not tell his most trusted general and protector! “Those Old Clandoners could have killed you this time! You can’t always rely on your weapons skill to protect you.” Gethnoel raised his arms in protest. “I’m sorry, Santena, I’ll tell you next time! I promise!” “No you won’t. You may have Doranfather’s Spirit inside you, as many of us do, but you said yourself not too long ago that sometimes you will be required to suffer! It’s my job to keep that from happening.” Santena huffed. He was a large wolf, about half a head taller than Gethnoel, and covered in black fur. Back in the rebellion, three years ago, he had been one of Rogue Captain Icefurr’s lieutenants. Now, he was King Gethnoel’s top general. This gave him the right to wear a breastplate and tunic like Gethnoel’s, with the same emblem on the silver metal, and the same white hood with white leather boots. The one thing that distinguished Gethnoel’s outfit from Santena’s was the crown of pure silver on the king’s head. It blazed on the hood in the shape of frozen flames. “I’ll be careful next time.” Gethnoel gave Santena a look that clearly said, “This conversation is over,” and the black wolf returned with a glance that obviously meant, “No, it’s not. We’ll talk later.” Gethnoel rolled his eyes, then walked out of the throne hall of the new palace to find his chambers. Santena though, He’s going to get himself killed someday. And if he does, I’ll be there with him. The general stomped bad-temperedly out of the hall. Five minutes later, a page came running to his bedchamber door. “General Ironpaw, your services are required at the council meeting!” Santena came out in two seconds, dressed in his full gear. A straight sword dangled at his side, with -- you guessed it -- a silver hilt. And a white sheath. “They are in the smaller room this time,” the page added. The general nodded, then rushed down the hall to his right. “Um . . . sir! It’s the other way!” Santena snorted, then spun around and marched down the other passage. Stupidly large palace. When he arrived, ten members of the king’s council were in a full out argument. Some were shouting. Santena rolled his eyes. These petty advisors could get riled up over the smallest things. No wonder Gethnoel needed help. He slammed a massive paw down on the center table. “Quiet for the king!” he yelled. That shut them up very quickly. Gethnoel nodded to his general. “Thank you, Santena. Now, Lord Rake, what were you saying? Something about my potential . . . marriage?” He puncuated this last sentence with such a glare that the rabbit in question shrank back. “I . . . it . . . I was just saying . . . that you might b-b-be aided in your search for a treaty with West Region m-might be aided if . . . i-i-if you were to accept the paw of the fox Spokesbeast’s daughter in m-marriage!” Lord Rake stuttered. He gulped. Gethnoel looked about the council. “Do the rest of you feel the same way?” he inquired, gentler. Hesitantly, the rest of the lords nodded. The only one to shake his head was Santena. “Ridiculous,” the black wolf muttered. “Her father did offer it, Your Highness,” an otter at the end of the table added. “So, you believe that I should marry, not because I love another creature, but because it would be advantageous?” Again, a series of nods greeted this statement. “Would you at least look at the document, lord?” Lord Rake asked, more confident now that the silver eyes weren’t on him anymore. He instantly procured an envelope with a green wax seal on it. Gethnoel sighed and took the papers. After reading through the message, he slammed it down on the table angrily. “This is how he sends his daughter’s wish to marry? Or rather, his own wish?” He handed the paper to Santena, who stood beside him. The wolf looked over the paper. It said: King Swiftblade, Rogue Captain and defender of old Clandoran, I send you my highest regards. In light of our recent interactions, I might speak to you of a matter that has been weighing down on my intelligent mind. My daughter is of marrying age, and I believe that you would make a suitable husband for her. I would like to offer you her in return for peaceful relations between our two kingdoms . . . Santena had to read no more to determine why Gethnoel was so mad. The pompous buffoon dared to speak to the king of his own intelligence and splendour, and all the reasons that Gethnoel should listen to his wisdom, given him by many experienced years. Apparently, he still viewed Gethnoel as a young king, but Santena didn’t think that this was what infuriated the Rogue Captain. No, rather, he believed that it was the objectification of Lady Madian. “At least meet him at Highlord Rock, Your Highness,” an older ermine suggested. Gethnoel sat in fuming silence for another two minutes of silence, then finally nodded. Santena almost smacked his forehead. |
AuthorI love fiction, fantasy, roleplaying, and reading. Nice to meet you too. All of my tales are little kid-friendly, except perhaps a few stories in the Rogue Captain universe. Those are more geared towards teens. Check with your parents, just in case. Archives
August 2019
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