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The Pretender God Chapt. 3 Pt. 3The twenty-two-year-old general and conqueror, Prince Cyneric Godwinson af Súrr, took his place at the Privy Council of his uncle, the aging King Cynewulf IV. The King sat at the head of the table, whilst an assortment of other ministers and advisors sat all about it. The King stood up, causing everyone else, including Cyneric to follow suit.
“I would like-,” The King began, before being interrupted by a violent fit of coughing. They stood patiently and waited for the fit to pass before the King, tall, broad shouldered and gray, began again. “As I was saying, I would like to introduce you all to my nephew, the “second” prince of Súrr and conquering general of the ruins. Tell us then, Your Highness, what news of the barbarians of the ruins? Please debrief the council.”
“Our recent summer campaign met with much success, Uncle,” The Prince replied.
The King frowned visibly and cleared his throat.
“I mean ‘Your Majesty,’
The Pretender God Chapt. 3 Pt. 1And after three days and an half the Spirit of life from God entered into them, and they stood upon their feet; and great fear fell upon them which saw them. (Revelation 11:11)
As the grey twilight betwixt night and first light covered the ruins of the Place of Ghosts, an eerie stillness seemed to shroud the entirety of the labyrinth of rock and twisted metal that was once a great metropolis of times long past. And as the ruin seemed now little more than a looming silhouette on a distant horizon, the remaining twelve men of the Pretender Prince, Cyneric, looked on in a mixture of fear and grief, lamenting the miserable turn of events which had stolen from them their comrades and their prince.
Some, now delivered from harm, took chance to sit where they stand as they, men hardened in the broil of battle, wept softly in grief, as many questions assaulted their strength of mind: Had their trials been for not? Had they come all this way in pursuit of a false dream? Had they left behind fam
The Pretender God Chap 2 Part 1And I saw one of his heads as it were wounded to death; and his deadly wound was healed: and all the world wondered after the beast. (Revelation 13:3)
The evening drew into its eleventh hour as the party in celebration of Prince Cyneric Godwinson af Súrr continued on unabated into the night. The main hall of the royal court was gaily decorated with banners and bunting, specifically those depicting the coat of arms of the recently come-of-age prince; The coat of arms being a silver drake upon a black field, this design having been chosen by the young Cyneric for his sixteenth birthday.
The center of the hall was large and open, and at that moment various nobles and dignitaries were dancing in waltz about its area. Above the floor hung a large crystal chandelier, which was brilliantly lit with what appeared to be several dozen separate candles. The entire assortment of persons present were in moods of good humor, all that was, save for the guest of honor himself.
The young Prince Cyn
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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