No Better Than The Beasts

Chapter One- In the Castle of Wolves

        It was a dark November with winds lashing out against the towers of the cold, stone castle and deadly snow that threatened to freeze all life in the kingdom. Prince Derrick Rastus paced the ebony floors of his room in frustration, his boiling blood almost making steam against the icy air. A suitor ball, how typical. How utterly and completely awful.

He was in an excellent mood this morning. He woke up in perfect serenity. So much, in fact, that he had expected birds to sing outside his window and sunlight to stream in onto his face. He had gotten up of his own accord and had dressed to his liking. Even to his own surprise, he was humming a little tune as he combed his dirty-blond hair. He was at peace and in his greatest state of mind, which you could hardly find these weary days. 

        A short knock and then the door flew open.      

                 "Sir! I have urgent, most terrible news!" cried a voice, unmistakably belonging to his annoying butler. Prince Derrick pinched his nose. There went his greatest state of mind.

                 "What is it now, Loup?" he snaps.

                 "There has been another, er....incident," Mr. Loup informs, ducking his head as if avoiding an invisible blow. To most, this answer seems vague. To Derrick, however, the word 'incident' was all he needed to understand the problem.

                "Tell the maids that they avoided punishment today, tell my father to join me at his table for a chat, and Loup?" the prince commanded.

                "Yes?" Loup asked nervously.

               "Do not. Ever Again," the prince said dangerously, "Come into my chambers. WITHOUT MY SAY SO."

                 "Y-Yes, sire," Mr. Loup, bowed.

                "Go!" the prince huffed.

                "Yes sire," Loup said quickly, hastily darting out of the prince's room. The prince, after rubbing his temples and hooking a sword to his waist, soon followed. However, Prince Derrick's destination was his father's knightly table, where he hoped his father was now waiting.

Prince Derrick's father, King Just Rastus, had agreed that Derrick needed a taste of kingly rule. In other words, his father threw all of the kingdom's predicaments onto his shoulders and expected him to find a solution to them. It put on a lot of stress, and, even though knowing his father's good intentions, the prince detested it like everything else.

The prince was not a personality people liked, nor was he as charming as his cousin in the west. At first glance, he would give off a kind appearance; one that drew you in and swooped you off your feet without hesitation. But then he would speak. That was one of the many flaws of the prince of the Kingdom of Mac Tíre: his snarky, snob attitude.

The prince did not give a second glance at the familiar hallways he thundered down. The dark, painted walls that bear paintings of his ancestors gave him no comfort in such a calamity. He double checked his rights and lefts, assuring himself he was going the right way, but deep inside he knew exactly where he was heading.

He stopped when he faced the big ebony doors that lead to his father's table, and then, after small hesitation, flung the doors open in a fury.

                "Son," his father greeted, "It's nice to see you on this fine morning." His father gestured to a nearby window, which revealed the deadly snowfall outside.

                "Wolves!" Prince Derrick cried, ignoring the king, " The wolves! They have done it again!" His father dropped his hands and sighed, looking at the table.