A Dragon's Blood

prologue :: before the dragon's ruled

The castle hall is somber and gold, marble extravagantly woven along the walls and carved into beautiful statues. How this can be a ruin that was abandoned so long ago, she knows not. It seems a silly idea that anyone would abandon this beauty.

The marble so gold and undoubtably expensive, how could anyone abandon this? How did King Theron do it? Why did he do it? Maybe she can make it hers...

But her awe at the place is short lived.

She steps forward, the marble smooth and cold beneath her feet as her dress sweeps over it. Almost silent in her steps, the cold shivers up her legs, but she'll be damned before she admits any feeling akin to discomfort.

"Jocelyn," a thick voice calls, rumbling deep along the castle walls.

She walks ever forward, ignoring the rough baritone that calls her to him like a pup, her chin jutting into the air.

She's never been a dog, never been one to follow the rules; much to her mother's distain, who, on her death bed, promptly disowned her.

Jocelyn replied as any unmarried woman of eight-and-twenty would: she ran into the mountains, alone, to avoid the drama of court and her sisters. How else was she to survive? Unwed and an heiress to a great house, it was most scandalous of her.

If she cared, she didn't ever bother to show it.

"Eryk," she replies softly, her tone yet still steely and unbreakble.

The end of the hall brings a throne to light. It is fashioned from the same marble as everything else, amber and bright in the last day's light. Why has he called her here so? The warlock has no business consorting with a lady - then again, she hasn't been a lady in years.

The man sits leisurely on the throne, which, once, belonged to King Theron centuries ago. Now it sits for any fool to take, or, for Eryk and his magic to hold for as long as they can.

"Ah, Jocelyn, looking as beautiful as ever, I see. How have you been, living in the mountains? Winter is coming soon, my dear, you best be prepared. I sense..." he trails off, eyes flickering around. Jocelyn looks at him, unamused; this is most usual of Eryk, she's come to learn, a distant mind that seems more entranced by the air rather than whomever speaks to him.

His fingers tingle and shake a little, a deathly shade white at his fingertips. A strange magic flickers from them as he moves. Ice. Little flakes fly into the air and float elegantly, bright like little stars. They soon melt in a flash.

"It will be cold this year, Jocelyn," he says, eyes returning back to her. The red flickering within them makes her shiver more than the marble.

"I know. I shall survive despite," she says, her chin still raised. Her hands are by her sides, and she brings them together to bring some much needed warmth to her body.

Already, she can feel the onset of winter in the air. Anima has turned chilly fast; faster than the year last, and even in Merre and Cardinon, the lowlands, the people must be freezing half to death in their light dresses and tunics.

Snow has already landed on the caps of mountains around her. Evenstar will be frozen already, and it won't be long before the castle they stand in will be barren, too.

Now everyone will feel a true winter, true agony, as people freeze to death and die of starvation.

Maybe Evenstar will be unlucky, this time. Maybe, if luck is on her side, for once, Lord Senre and her sister - his wife - will freeze to their deaths in their castle of theirs. Maybe the food will run out and, slowly, they'll starve.