Doryn [5]
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The night was awfully quiet. Doryn’s footfalls echoed behind and around him in the marble halls as he made his way back to his room. At first, he hadn’t planned on sleeping, due to the fact that every time he close his eyes, all he could see was their heads atop the gate.
The young prince went into his washroom and drew a bath inside his great tub. He considered calling on a maid to do it for him, but dismissed the thought. He even thought of Celeste, but quickly banished the thought. The water was freezing, and Doryn felt as though he felt his body had been dipped in flames, and steam was rising from the transparent, still water. Doryn gripped the sides of the tub until his knuckles were white, his nails biting into the porcelain. He tried to close his eyes, to crawl inside his mind, but all that was there was, was a room. A concrete room, the image of their heads pasted across every inch of the room that grew smaller and smaller with every second.
In an effort to drown these thoughts, Doryn let go of the tub and let his head sink into the biting waters. Completely underwater, Doryn opened his blue eyes.
I made…-I made that choice. Their stupidity lost them their lives, it was not me who took them. It’s a terrible weight, a weight that it’s not my job to bear on my shoulders. I will be the King of the Red Storm, I’ll be the king with not a single worry.
“The life you live is the life determined by your choices. All you have to do is not be manipulated by facades and the smoke and mirrors that make you think your life is chosen for you.”
His mother had told him that, not so long ago. At least it felt that way. At the time, the young prince hadn’t understood what she’d meant. It was only now, when all his choices were being taken away from him that finally Doryn understood. Letting his breath escape from his lips and rise in bubbles up to the still surface, Doryn let the purple strings taut around his heart loosen and simply slip away.
They are – they were, nothing.
Doryn broke the surface of the water and gasped for air.
Half-dressed and drying his hair, Doryn returned to his room, only to find a scabbard lying on the round table.322Please respect copyright.PENANANfHqxGtLis
Odd. Whoever left this here must’ve snuck in whilst I bathed…
There was no denying its beauty. It was a pure untainted white crusted with reshaped pearls tracing the outline of the scabbard. Tenderly, Doryn unsheathed the sword. The pommel was carved into two angelic looking wings, the grip the same white as the pommel and scabbard. But the true beauty lie in the blade itself. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. From the look of it, it was glass, but the sharpness and dexterity said otherwise. It looked as if someone had taken the glass from a stained glass window and forged it into the shape of a sword. Doryn held it up to the moonlight pouring from the window, and rays of every color beamed from the other side.
“What a fine replacement,” Doryn muttered, giving it a swing, the rainbow light flickering. He looked to his bed, and thought of their heads. He looked to the blade, and thought of freedom. Quiet and as fast as he dared, Doryn escaped out into the palace training courtyard. With the sword aglow with rainbow light Doryn danced about the courtyard, his breath frosting into a white, cloudy trail. With the night silent as it was, the distant night-city sounds echoing off in the far distance. The blade whistled, slicing through the cold, thick air, it was the only song he need hear.
He swung back and forth, left to right until he came to a sudden stop. Just an inch from the point of his rainbow sword, a masked stranger stood. Thin, cloaked and in a blue mask he stood there, silent as if he’d been carved on the spot. The eye-holes in the mask were shadowed, yet they still stared right through him, a few stray silver hairs poked through the side of the mask.
“Are you the one who gave me this sword?” Doryn asked, still holding the blade pointed at the stranger. The stranger shook their head, and extended a closed fist. Doryn tensed for a moment, only to sigh when the stranger opened their fist to reveal a black button. The stranger let it fall to Doryn’s feet, but when the prince looked back up he found the stranger was gone.
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The next day, Doryn and Gareth gave the Lord Jeryah a tour of the Soldiers of Sulphur’s barracks.
A button and a sword. A curious pair.
He’d kept the button in his pocket, and the sword in its sheath hidden under his bed shoved between the panels. Yet Doryn had taken the button and kept it in his pocket, and with hands shoved in his pockets he flicked it between his fingers like he had with poker cards. He couldn’t quite figure its significance, or what it represented. Or whether it meant anything. For all Doryn knew it was just a black button that had fallen from an item of clothing,
The Soldier’s barracks were a shade of sullen grey awash with stains of black. Silver pipes spider-webbed the roof and every crevice, occasionally hissing steam. Commands and notifications were called out through the speakers perched on every corner, spoken by a solemn deep-voiced man that sounded as though he’d had the soul drained from him. Gareth, (despite his dislike of the Soldiers) he knew every barrack and military hall in the city like the back of his hand. He guided the two through the facility, showing off its smoke and rust smelling grandeur.
In the barracks they housed, fed and repaired the soldiers.
“They’re so damn expensive, it’s better to repair and use quality materials on the orphan mutants rather than have pay double or triple that for a replacement,” Aboryn had once said, long, long again. Doryn had been so young, he could almost thought his brother was talking about a machine, rather than soldiers.
Adjoined to the barracks there was the Sulphur tower, a command-center of the Soldiers and the most damn-ugly building Doryn had ever seen. They operated on a private, secure channel only available in the Capitol grounds. It reminded Doryn of a game he used to play with Oro and Loryn, even Aboryn once upon a time. There’d be two on a team, and they’d play out their own little war games. (This usually ended with the four teaming up to prank a poor maid that happened to be drying washing out that day. Which thus led to the four being chased around the gardens by a surprisingly fast and extremely furious plump maid.
With the over-abundance of military presence and the young Lord’s interest in the military, it had been arranged that they’d tour the lord Jeryah around the many facilities they’d had to show.
Gareth seemed only half-present, his mind wandering off to some place far from here, Doryn couldn’t have given less of a shit and Jeryah was being a presumptuous cun- Doryn was snapped from his lazy string of thought when Jeryah spoke up.
“What is this procedure? I’ve never see such a device,” He asked, tapping on the glass window. Through the rectangular window there was a small room, will a large machine. A man sat on an iron chair inside, his ankles and wrists strapped to the arms and legs of the chair. He was dressed in the suit of a Soldier of Sulphur, yet their identifying copper gas-mask was missing. He seemed young, his hair an oily mop of black hair with a strong, even build. It was obvious he was scared, the way he shifted and twisted about in the cuffs. The machine of cogs and iron twisted a shifted behind him, at its point a long, long needle extended, two great cogs turning, one clockwise and the other anti-clockwise as it pushed forward until the needle point struck the nape of the young mans neck, and stabbed deeper and deeper until the needle was completely buried into his neck.
He screamed as the liquid from the needle flask was emptied into him, heat rising from his neck. The young man thrashed about wildly, sprits of drool spraying about as he gnashed his teeth together.
“What…what is this?” Doryn said, eyes wide and stomach churning. Gareth averted his eyes and looked to a spec on the floor.
“There…are certain mutations the Soldiers take on to have the abilities that they have. Yet the first process they go through, isn’t quite a mutation. To…prevent any anomalies and birth defects, they prevent any births,” Gareth muttered, an itch under his skin.
Something in Doryn’s chest immediately convulsed at the last word.
“Forced…chemical castration?” Doryn said weakly, taking a step back.
“They choose this. This is the path that they’ve taken,” Gareth said sternly, trying to convince Doryn. Trying to convince himself.
“I don’t…I…who established this order, who established this…this act?” The prince spat, the young Lord watching on in amusement. Somehow, Gareth looked even more uncomfortable than before.
“Your- er, Emperor Borynad Blacksteel, is responsible for the SoS program, my prince,” Gareth stammered. Doryn’s guardian was only ever angry or complacent. There was no in between for the oxen warrior. Seeing him so lock-jawed like this set Doryn more on edge than he’d care to admit. Ignorant or ignoring the consequences, Doryn closed the button in his pocket into a tight fist and left, half-heartedly excusing himself on leave of business.
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Somehow, almost by instinct Doryn found himself at the Fallen Angel.
Was there a point where this all became too much? Why now, why now was the blindfold being ripped from his eyes. Sapphire eyes of a Tyrant Storm. Eyes his father had given him, more so than his mother. His worries and responsibilities that had been suddenly forced upon him had begun to accumulate into a list.
Celeste and his father. The princess Pandora and her mysterious behavior. Jeryah. His father. Myrcia and her childish ways. His father. It always circled back to his father. It was always his fault.
Thinking of his father, it led his mind to wander back to the meeting he’d endured through not so long ago.
“I don’t believe Creed’s intentions of such a gathering of a host was purely for the investigation of the Monolith creature’s appearance. There is something in the depths of that city that I’ve searched for…for a long time. So…for now, I must ask that you look to the future, if you’re ever to rule, you’ll need to understand that.”
Doryn hadn’t given much thought for what his father had been talking about, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he cared now. There was only one thing Doryn was really sure of about his father. That he was predictably unpredictable. He had a way of worming into thoughts, and curse a terrible rot upon any enjoyable aspect of Doryn’s life. It made the prince wonder, what was so damn important to be searching for in the city that took priority over ruling his own damn empire?
Before he could step through the gate, a familiar voice called to him at the foot of the steps.
“My Lady,” Red said almost softly, the smile on her painted lips reflected in her voice.
Doryn turned round and sauntered down the steps.
“My good gentleman,” He said, giving her a small curtsey. Smirking, Red took his hand and with a small bow kissed his knuckles. Seeing her, a flame ignited in place of the flickering cold pit inside his stomach. The warmth spread to his chest and even to his ears, the prince almost blushed when he noticed Yelena had been standing by watching the whole time.
“Oh…ah, Emright…” Doryn said, shifting back from Red slightly. Emright just smiled and tossed him a scabbard wrapped in cloth. He caught the light long-sword and let the cloth drop to the cobblestones, revealing the white scabbard.
“Who…who is this from, did you give this to me?” He asked, puzzled. Doryn unsheathed the sword a small way, enough for the glass to reveal itself and let the sun’s rays reflect and transform into dancing, multi-colored light. Emright pushed the sword gently yet quickly back into its scabbard.
“No, the sword was not my gift. But from what I know, it was from a friend. It’s a sure replacement for Stormbyte, is it not? From the look of it, the balance, grip and its very design, it’s all been hand-crafted just for you. All that’s left is to give it a name,” Emright shrugged, sitting on the concrete retainer.
Hmm. A name? Well…thinking on the spot here I’d say…
“Shadowsblyte!” Doryn announced with a wide smile, saying aloud how to spell it. It took him a moment. Red gave him a skeptical look, complimenting Emright’s bored expression. Emright stood, and swung her arms about a bit, stretching like she’d just had a nap. Which she probably had.
“I’ve got my own business to attend to for a while. I’ll escort the prince back to the Gardens when I’ve run my errands. In the meanwhile, keep him entertained, would you?” She said to Red, strolling off into a murky-aired alleyway. Doryn would’ve bet his wife that as soon as him and Red left, whatever ‘business’ Emright had would involve the bottom of far too many flagons of ale and wondrously colored drinks inside the Fallen Angel.
“Come, let’s find something to do,” Red said wistfully, turning to stroll down the street. With a small smile and Shadowsblyte now strapped to his back, Doryn followed.
Red led him through the streets of the Industrial District and to an iron door. The door had been built into the side of the Summit’s volcanic, black wall that over the years had been slowly covered with sheets of metal and even a few houses built into its side. She took out an odd-looking key from her red jacket and unlocked the heavy, almost vault-like door. Doryn peered down into the musty darkness and thought twice.
“Where does this lead?” He asked warily.
Red stepped inside the tunnel and said, “It leads to a place, which leads to another place which is much more interesting than standing in this old tunnel talking about such a place.”
Doryn gathered his courage and followed her lead, closing the door behind them. For but a second, they were enveloped within complete darkness. Red clicked her fingers, and the roof glowed. Fireflies buzzed about on the roof, lighting the passage and their dusty aired path.
Pretty. Odd, but pretty.
In silence they walked down the passageway that sloped downwards, (growing steeper and steeper mind you), there was nothing but the sounds of their echoing footfalls and the buzz of the fireflies. At some point, something sounded behind them, echoing dramatically. Doryn drew Shadowsblyte, the firefly light making the sword glow a gentler rainbow light. He shifted the sword in the palm of his hand, and the rays of light winked. They stopped for a moment, but continued on their way, quicker this time. Eventually they made it to the foot of the mountain, arriving at yet another iron door. Red pushed open the door, revealing the very place Doryn swore he’d never step into.
The City Above.
Red left the tunnel and swept into the rustic, smoke and sweat smelling street, her crimson cloak rippling in the slight wind. In hour or so that it had taken to journey down the volcano tunnel, (the rocky floor carved into steps) it had begun to rain. The rainfall was slanted due to the wind, hitting Doryn square in the face. He held and arm to protect his face and raised his hood of his white cloak.
With their faces hidden and not a soul knowing their name, they were simply two strangers. One white, one red. The sky had turned a sickly, cloudy black, a dabble of brushstrokes of murky paint-water. They continued their delightful conversation of absolute silence, winding through the streets and into a back-alley.
Can’t help but wonder…what kind of filth could live in this place…Growing up in the gardens it never really mattered to me what happened outside the Summit. The Iron Eye had been our entire world.
Doryn was brought back to reality when they heard the sound of a man being beaten to death. He exchanged a quick look with Red, before they both dashed toward the sound. They skidded to a halt at the backend of an alley, looking down the concrete yard out the back of (one of many,) three clay houses. The prince had only had the pleasure of being in the company of the Slum Guard a handful of times, but he could summarize them easily enough. Arrogant, pig-headed and yet very well dressed. The Guard had been a shit gift-wrapped with a little red bow and gracefully gifted to the Iron Eye. On the Eastern coast, with an over-abundance of hot-blooded farmers sons hungry for work and blood, the Trade Princes Three had to find a dumping ground suitable of such. They managed to kill two birds with one stone, coming up with the PCP, or Population Control Program.
They’d won favor at court by providing a policing agency for the City Above and Below, and gotten rid of a threat-filled generation of youths. They’d not lost their working force, considering more than half of their laborers were machinery nowadays. The princes had had their most cunning of designers design the uniform of the Slum Guard. It was an even splice of Northern and Eastern garb, with an undershirt of deep navy and an overlapping maroon trench coat. Their obsidian scimitars were made of a similar glass to Doryn’s sword, yet they lacked all its grace and beauty. Of course, the guards beating the old man to death at the present hadn’t bothered to draw their swords. They didn’t require it.
The old man was clearly frail, skinny even at the years of a lean and scarce diet, as the dry crunch of his brittle bones breaking proved. Without a second thought, Doryn drew Shadowsblyte as he leapt down. He was a shadow of pure white and a glowing sword of white, a wraith, nothing more, as his features were hidden by the shadow of his hood. The sound of his sudden landing got their attention easy enough, and a second later the sight of Shadowsblyte led them to draw their scimitars, black and curved. Four of them against one of him? Oh, Doryn only wished it was more of a challenge.
He swung it once in the palm of his hand, the blade whistling in the wind, picking up pitch until it sung, the rainbow glass meeting the obsidian. It only took another swing of his rainbow sword for the obsidian scimitar to be knocked from the scruffy looking guard’s hands. His shock and surprise gave Doryn ample time to slam the hilt of his sword into the guard’s chest, sending him flailing away. Adrenaline pumping through every vein in his body, Doryn surged forward, sending the rainbow sword in a sweeping arch, its edge destined to meet the bald man’s wrist. Yet, at the last moment his brother in arms swept in the blocked the blow with his own sword. Once again the black glass ran against the rainbow, aglow with every color. Doryn’s sword ran harmlessly off the scimitar, the point landing with a light scrape on the concrete, a spark flying at the sudden strike.
It gave a moment for the prince to examine his prey. Three of them still stood but the fourth had slunk away clutching his middle. The first was older than the rest, bald, with a subtle cruelty in his eyes, the second was a blonde youth, wild fury in his opal eyes and the third was another youth, his long green hair pulled back into a ponytail. They spread out slightly, adjusting into a messy formation. Doryn shifted a foot backward and angled Shadowsblyte. He took a deep breath and lunged onto the offensive. The bald man had thrust himself forthright, yet feigned backwards when he felt the strength behind Doryn’s attack. He was smart, unlike the other two. Yet, the two youths charged, impatient with no form and no clear thought in their attack. They charged with their swords raised high, leaving their middle and chest exposed. With a vice grip on the white hilt, Doryn swung his sword in a diagonal swipe, the point not even an inch away from their bellies. Purely by instinct the two dodged backwards stumbling over each other. 322Please respect copyright.PENANAAJxw57lfJt
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Doryn went to stab the patch of ground between their heads, but was thrown forward by a knock to the middle of his back. Now lying between the two youths, another Slum Guard stood above him, scimitar raised. Doryn drowned the urge to skewer him right through his exposed belly, and instead froze, his mind refusing to work. The black-haired Slum Guard went to slam his scimitar into Doryn’s heart, only for a red whip to wrap around the blade and yank it out of his grip. The prince looked round to the whips wielder, and found Red at the other end.
The Slum Guard staring down at him turned round to Red, only for the blonde haired warrior to snap the whip again, leaving a long red streak along the Guards cheek. With another stroke she wrapped the red whip around his throat, and pulled him to the ground with a chocked cry. Doryn got to his feet, and pointed the sword at the two youths still on the ground.
“Fuck off,” He grunted, trying to hide the fact he was out of breath.
They looked to each other for a moment, then at the crack of Red’s whip they scrambled away, the green-haired one helping the bald man away. Doryn went over to the old man and helped him to his feet. The old man shook, but gave him a crooked, grateful yet scared looking smile. Doryn ignored the old man as he helped him up, looking to Red instead with a smirk. She curled the whip around her wrist, and raised an eyebrow.
The old man bumbled away into the streets, off to whatever hovel he’d slunk from. Red played with the whip, pulling it taut then letting it loosen, like a red viper curled around her arm.
“That could’ve gotten messy,” He said, tugging his hood back slightly. She glanced at him and smiled slightly.
“Yeah, it could’ve. Lucky I was there to save you,” Red said with a wink.
Seems the whole heroism thing does it for her. Good to know. Keep that up, maybe I can show her my whip…
Red led him to the edge of the city, right to the eastern cliffs overlooking the sheer drop down into the Mourning Sea. A bar by the name of the Salty Cock (with a painted sign of a roster hanging below) had been built on the cliff, support beams digging into the cliff-face as it extended over the drop. The inside bar was mostly empty, the loudest noise the crackle of the hearth alight with orange and yellow flames.
A bartender, a woman of blood-red hair wearing a white shirt and black vest seemed to recognize Red well enough. She was just as beautiful as Red yet her breasts were by far larger and rounder than the blonde warrior’s. The bartender clearly recognized Red by visible wince in her dim eyes and slight bow of her head. She pressed some button behind the bar and a door to the left gave a loud click. Red gave the girl a small nod, and Doryn gave her a grin as they passed.
In the lower floor of the bar, open-aired and overlooking the dark sea was a wooden overlook. The view was curtained with many colored silks, the same silks tossed about the couches lining the wood paneled walls put up to keep the wind out. A table sat slightly off-center, covered in papers, instruments and marbles similar to that of the War Table in the palace. Similar groves had been carved into the table, lever mechanisms visible just beneath the table.
Yet Doryn’s view was drawn to the three women on the couch where the roof didn’t quite reach, where the wind sent the silks rippling and flying about in the cool autumn wind that carried the salty scent of the sea. He only recognized one, the third woman to the right, dressed in a flowing yellow dress and copper armor plating her shoulders the sides of her hips. Yelena Emright. Red left his side and stood beside the lounge, exchanging a glance with each of them.
“May I present to you, Prince Doryn Blacksteel, fourth born of Borynad Blacksteel,” Red announced.
Doryn felt his insides go cold and stiffen as they froze.
“May I introduce Sarthe,” Red said, motioning to the woman in the emerald dress and mint-green armor plating her belly, chest and neck. Rusty hair and blue eyes, like river water running over the rusted remains of a collapsed bridge. She must have been at least forty-five years of age, yet still retained her beauty. Doryn gave her a stiff nod.
“And Thalia,” Red introduced the woman in the black dress and grey armor. Her hair was streaked with grey, her eyes the color of a dying fire. Glowing orange flecks dotted her irises and the white of her eyes which were black instead of white, the same glowing ember-flecks spotting the impenetrable black.
She was undoubtedly the child of a Fire Freak. Nine out of ten of those children grew, yet died. They became thinner and thinner until they were merely skeletons, their skin greying and almost melting away until they became nothing but a blackened skeleton with no baser instinct than to kill. Their only instinct was to tear any living thing open, maybe in some search for human warmth. A cure had been created, well, a tonic that slowed the transformation down so that the child might live a little longer. It was expensive, of course. Most of the Fire Freaks and their offspring roamed the south of Valyrett, making themselves easy prey for the Masters. They’d take in the parents with the promise that they could help cure their child or at least keep them around for longer. In return, one parent or both would be enslaved to pay off the debt, a red bow tied around their necks to show that they did not belong to themselves.
The Fire Freaks themselves were results of the war initiative. The War waged by Avylard Blacksteel, king of the Mourning Sea in his campaign to expand his kingdom to the entirety of the New World. They were strange beings, with the destructive power of fire at their fingertips. They were human explosions, capable of imploding and causing untold amounts of damage to their enemies, and then come back together. Ashes weaving into ashes, the cracks between aglow with the fire within them until they were whole again. Most had died off, yet some managed to survive. There were few, very, very few of those survivors who managed to avoid the mutation and inherit powers similar to that of the parent. They certainly couldn’t implode then repair themselves, but they had some mastery over fire. In an effort to protect their monstrosities, the Empire and her court spread the propaganda that the ‘normals’ amongst the Fire Freak children were just like every other normal human. Aside from their freakish black and yellow speckled eyes, or the grey scale like strips of armor running along their arms, the back of their hands, down their bellies and legs.
Doryn had only ever seen one other Normal Freak in his life. The Crimson Knight. The royal executioner had always reminded him of a snake.
And now, a much prettier snake sat before him. This snake looked to be much hungrier.
They looked to each other, then back to Doryn.
“Ah, sweet Doryn. We weren’t quite expecting you, we were expecting a hero of sorts,” Thalia hissed.322Please respect copyright.PENANArthcXQBu00