God King

1241 Words3 Pages

N EWS HAD ARRIVED FROM HIS diplomat, Hayden, that civil war was perhaps brewing in lands far southern. The Windturns and the Royal Amaedyeres had had their sibling rivalries as a unified force once upon a time, but civil war was something very unlike them in the present day. Word came last night that the last son of the dying Amaedyeres King, Tetren Dianephis, had slain his younger sister in a fit of rage. Claims have befell the wind that the family of Windturns, led by the Serapid noblelord and a member himself, have orchestrated for her to lead war against her own royal family. However, alas, she was dead at the time of report, and it seemed to Jeran Godlyric, the current noblelord Armodaim of Thundertöd, that civil war was inevitable. The situation was doomed, a terrible birth of an event. “This world cannot stay sane for very long,” he uttered to himself. His chancery was dark usually, he liked it that way, and he appreciated the love that the darkness left unreciprocated, for the essence was even quieter to him and did not acknowledge his affection. The limbos of the world, the in-betweens of life, were what kept Jeran content as a man, and as a leader. The silence was peace to contemplate, and this was his land. The Armodaim was grateful that his protectant-realm was free of mad tales like those he had recently heard. However, it must have been no coincidence that his cousin Pip went out and drowned some days ago. The ancient goblet near his desk suddenly burst into a beautiful wind of a flame. It smelled peculiarly of cinnamon, freshly dug from the earth. This smell was the first time in a long time that the blue flame’s essence bombarded him. The last time that Jeran remembered the great blue flame alit upon its ... ... middle of paper ... ... into Jeran’s palm and he could no longer see the master on the other end. He placed it atop the totem pole again. Jeran expelled a long sigh and shook his head full of long and honeyed, black hair. “Uncle,” said Jeran, “Uncle, hopefully this is not as threatening as it—” Something compelled Jeran to turn. That old, lanky man had left so fast. “It is damned,” hissed Jeran. His uncle was the first Sorcis to know ragnarus so proficiently that he had the terrifying ability to literally teleport and perform it at ease. Not even, he, a luminary fighter as the very Armodaim himself, understood it. There now, Jeran was unaided in his beloved darkness and silence. With the news, he struggled for the day when his reign would grow into the potential of a truly and much solemn obstacle. Who could help him should it come to power? He prayed against the situation.

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