Also, if you have a criticism, I'd mainly like to know if at any point it became uninteresting or if there were any real errors. But keep it fair and remember that I’ve got a long way to go (only seventeen). My writing style of choice is pretty much unchangeable, and, also, some background info: this is my second novel in the works. My first is around 100k words right now, and it’s due to being done come February. I personally think my writing really does its best when it’s assembled into its entirety in one story. So remember that this is just the prologue, and, also: it is merely a small portion of the setting and an introduction for three characters (one major).... But any old way, I couldn't, for some reason, indent the paragraphs, so I spaced out the bugger. Enjoy! 
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Though yet love’s transgressions were first sight bereft and all for naught, now it seems old age has brought them back.
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B R O K I N A R
Prologue
THE LOYALIST MILITIA
Torgalas effortlessly stroked the ward stone upon his breast, hidden beneath his brown leather jerkin. For so long he had borne it--he had totally forgotten about his need of it. It was as if...as if it was an extension of his body, as such as a hand or as such as a foot. Unless it were gone, then he would never, truly realize its importance--its singularity. And he would rue such a day when he took it for granted.
But such “philosophical” thoughts did not penetrate the mind of the young man that morn. Stubborn, his aura seemed, as he sat upright in his low-bottomed seat on high up, on the third tier.
He awaited the playhouse to go into effect.
And it was...a busy...day.
In the storeroom the props had all but been emptied out; costumes, fake weaponry, furled banners, musical instruments, and such the like were all bereft of their dusty containers and old tombs. And there were many extras that day, for this was the re-enactment of the Great Seneschal War.
And thus, in one of the passages in the backrooms, hands from a source unseen plucked up three banners shrouded in nearly-utter darkness: each had a worn, sun-drenched color of stark contrast to the light-brown shelf upon which they took nearly-permanent rest--the color...of bright blood. And each banner also had an outline of dull gold, and each also had striking rune symbols--each banner contributing different letters and different arrangements, which gave the guesser the hypothesis that each banner represented a different name...or House.
The said color--the red: of the King of the Old in the Golden Castle, in the southeastern region of Naryon...
...According to history, the true King had strangely departed--in fact, roughly three hundred years ago to the day of the play. And so, the line of Kings was utterly ruined, and there arose three great Seneschals, or Stewards, whom claimed kingship for their very own. Each had their most important tool of politics at the time: a great arm of militaristic legions (consisting mostly of loyalists and then mercenaries). And they three, alone, held power unequaled.
But none of the three Stewards would back down nor cease their incessant barking--their claims to the throne and to the crown. And as thus, in such a way, the Great Seneschal War--the war that literally decimated a culture and wiped out an entire generation of young men and women--had begun.
As aforementioned, the true King had left--perhaps in his wisdom, perhaps in his insanity. No one answer is for sure. But either way, it was he who took with him many invaluable tomes of the Old Code.
For the Old Code was an archaic system of language. And by the end of the War, the scholars of the ancient peoples had either been quickly dispersed or summarily sacrificed to ease the war-harried bloodlust of the mobs, who at the time labeled knowledge a heresy and blamed the War itself on such scholars. Indeed, Naryon’s ages of darkness had begun; and it cleared its trumpet and ringed like a bell during those days of sacrifice. And such drastic changes cut a dire effect across the southeasterly lands, which inadvertently made the Old Code a dead language.
And--
Suddenly, Torgalas snatched his shrouded, shadowed hand from forth his brown leather jerkin. The play had begun. A single man dressed in rich, purple attire stepped forthright on to the middle-front of the stage. His tongue rolled eloquently and yet tersely; and there were beautiful cracks in it. He also accidentally whistled some S-words through his teeth, and that fondly reminded some of others like that: of a graying husband or a generous grandfather. His head wobbled slightly on his shoulders as he spoke aloud:
‘People! To each his own tonight, yes! But remember...this is which thee owe thy existence to, if you take my meaning. They had fought so valiantly, O yes...but, maybe, just perhaps...we would still be speaking Old Code this very day!’
Four vertical tiers, one above the other, spanning in a circle and encompassing the entire circumference before the stage, laughed in response. There were huddled masses of peasants standing right in front of the stage, and they laughed as well. The peasant numbers were two times that of those in the tiers. The laughter continued for quite some time, and the subtle sounds and the nuances in the many-voiced laugh was like a healing salve running hot down an ailing throat for those nervous in the backstage...
For the crowd abruptly hushed to simpering silence. There were no nobles present, no. They all felt the playhouse an affront, and they irregularly voiced their opinion, much to the dismay of the theatre’s compatriots. And one would soon find out why there was such contention.
The stagehands, dressed in a baggy, jester-flamboyant purple and yellow garb, raised forth long-necked trumpets--like the grace of a slender gooseneck. And they blared unmusically, as if they were giving a dreadful war cry or a staunch reminder--an exclamation point.
...As if in answer, roughly fifty intentionally swarthy-looking folk charged from the backstage. They were dressed in nothing but rags of patchwork the color of dried, chipped mud. And upon the stage they waged their tragicomedy of bloodletting. And they were armed with what appeared to be nothing more than blunt-tipped daggers, safe from causing any real harm or, much less, injury. Distinct long swords, though, signified two Seneschals, which were swinging with much more gusto than the countless knives.
And so, the crowd upon the stage ensued in a fake but believable, fierce conflict. And, if there were two opposing sides, then they were indistinguishable.
The crowd slapped and crooned in polite laughter when Selma the Duly Slain stupidly turned in a lazy, forced feint. Her ill-placed maneuver sent her weight reeling on the back of her heels, and her exposed spine smacked a dagger tip, and the weapon she had attempted to feint she received below the bone of her chest. And she crumpled to the stage floor, and her subsequent, melodramatically twisting “corpse” left a small group of extras navigating around.
When Deo the Daring charged the ranks and the rest quelled, the extra playing Deo seemed faintly to smirk, as if he were overjoyed to be partaking in something that meant a lot to a lot of people. In one of those perfect moments, “Deo” looking back at his allies, whom hung back like a bitter, dim flame, screamed in futility, amidst the clangor, ‘Narson-Boltaire,’ which was Old Code for “Hellfire and brimstone”...
...Away he disappeared into the blades of the fell enemy and deftly exited left stage. Had Deo’s corpse not been crushed during the actual battle, then, perhaps, he might have gone through dramatic death throes, similar as Selma had.
And four tiers stood upon their feet from their seats, their eyes intent on the valor being depicted before their eyes. It was as if they were observing through a sacred, hallowed window into the past.
The single man who had introduced the play strode forth once more. The extras lay in silent, total stillness upon the ground, their bodies nothing more than battle-aftermath.
And Torgalas grinned wide before the next moment came. He admired the appreciation--the shear discipline--that went into this historical drama. But his smirk soon fanned into palpable flesh in his cheeks. His attention spanned across to the now-beckoning cry of the introducer (no longer sounding so worn as once before):
‘TWO seneschals have been slain--
There was a long, inferable, and insufferable pause as his voice creaked off and trailed off.
‘But yet, ONE remains,’ and his voice chimed like a bell when he ventured to raise his tone like that. His pauses were fragmented and bated. He was readied to unleash a new phrase or sentence, it would seem. But no--
The crowd was filled with a silence, but it was not an unresponsive silence, no. It was pure tension.
Someone amongst the audience yelled something in Old Code--something of an old adage, perhaps. Nobody really spoke fluently of the Old, though. The words in themselves were held meaningless, but old sayings were always timeless and remembered well past the dying of the actual language itself. And the meaning was clear, and it erupted into a cheer from those in attendance.
And so, it had begun. The audience seasoned themselves, as well as the peasants. The remainder of those who were sitting stood up and pounded overlooking banisters, unable to contain the moment within their solitude.
And thus, the greatest actor of the New Code, Olivier, stumbled upon the stage. He appeared feigning a wound to his right thigh and marked with the sour look of battle. The audience was as still water...listening, waiting for it.
And Olivier’s lines sprouted forth, and, although not quite human or something one would regularly speak, he nonetheless used them to perfection--and they were well nigh an excellent picture frame for his beleaguered character: Steward Alex. As such, he droned on in a depressed, self-deprecating manner, and his grave, thick words spaced themselves slightly far apart:
‘I have come, but I have not conquered. O, the Old Code lies beneath me--passed me by now, I felt it. I felt it. I felt it. It lies beneath me. It lies beneath me...and it is buried. Buried, O, buried.’
Clenching his fists, Olivier then knelt about the bodies, as if he knew their look, their smells, intimately. He wept, clenching his fists some more for good measure, as if he were trying to turn the faucet of his pitiful weeping off. He was trying to replace his slobbering with certain strength, but it was not within the reach of his tragic character. He knew that, and others knew that. And it was made so real before them. And some members of the audience wept with "Steward Alex"; others were simply held spellbound...still.
‘Steward Alex!’ rasped a stinging voice quickly, like a draining thunderclap. A body arose from the dead bodies--seemingly like an imp charging forth from out of hell. The blood in the temples of some began to beat like a snare drum.
The minds of the audience screamed at the actor-villain. The Destroyer! The Destroyer has come! Like the pierce of a dagger to the heart, it astonished them, but soon it filled them into ease and they accepted his appearance and his presence--nonetheless fascinated by it, though.
The figure seemed to hover without feet. It wore a bright red robe, lined with yellow around the sleeves and front and back. Around the face-shadowing hood was lined an aquamarine blue. The extravagant colors seemed almost otherworldly and quite vulgar. A long, gnawed, and twisted finger stuck forth from the drooping cuff of a long sleeve. Its accusing finger prodded uncomfortably. The finger appeared as a victim of leprosy, but not yet fallen off, as if somehow suspended or sickly preserved.
The crowd gasped and then hissed at all those sights--finally, initial disgust had become audible friction.
‘Dan...Harvester,’ flatly said Olivier. There would have been some contempt in his voice, but he applied so much weariness to his adaptation (he was the playwright, as well). ‘So, you too...have come.’
‘Ah,’ rasped the actor in portrayal of Dan Harvester, raising up his leper-finger, as if trying to prick a point in Olivier’s mind. The finger appeared a blunt tool, though. And, abruptly, his portrayal, had, somehow, suddenly lost all its believability...perhaps even making his rasp excruciating and his clothes silly. His voice did not waver, though, and it knew not the things many others observed. ‘I shall conquer, unlike you.’
And Olivier’s face tightened in response, as if his tongue was set to loose a poignant, powerful line, or perhaps he had thought of some incredibly sharp, human improvisation. Instead, he merely wisped through his tired portrayal as he charged, ‘Have at thee, have at thee.’
It distinctly broke the ice lain by actor-Harvester. Olivier brandished a slim, two-handed sword, raising it to his face. Harvester equipped a cane off the ground with blinding, robotic efficiency, which looked to be his anyway--from all the contorted carvings on its crown. He swung the cane the exact moment Olivier had begun his approach. And as if some super-natural, unknown force were contained in the staff, Olivier became swept up and slung down. He fell at the edge of the stage’s foot, at the feet of the foremost peasants.
There came the pounding of a pair of plate-mailed feet against the wooden stage, seemingly in answer. Their hollow thud grew. Olivier was unmoved, and he did not get up. Harvester exited the stage. The stamps of a halberd staff could be heard. And then--
‘GRACE AND HONOR!’ they declared brusquely, their voices more deafening than the horns had been. There were three of them. The one in the middle wore brazenly bright, iron plate-mail, his tall body capped off with a thick head that was topped off with a blue and dark feather cap. To his right and left flank there was a long bowman, clad in light-brown, studded leather. All three wore a thin sash of dark periwinkle.
The crowd was caught in a limbo of sorts--a mixture of confused silence and wondering recollection, trying to seize the scene from out of the well-recited script. But no one remembered this... The crowd shifted in a moment before--
The armor-laden one in the middle clanked up to the mid-way of the stage and pronounced:
‘He has broken the Law of portrayal of King of Old, who reads as thus: “he shall not be portrayed as a farmer. He shall be portrayed as a great lord, riding into war--his face of undeniable strength and his manner stalwart.
‘He has broken the Law of portrayal of the loyalist armies, who reads as thus: “they shall not be portrayed as serfs or indentured servants of feudal lords. They shall be shown in full battle wear, each with a blade or axe of war. And they shall all wear wreaths about their heads, signifying the signet piece of the House.
The Captain Hagrin curled his lips and then continued, but he addressed the crowds now instead of the thin air before his stone-carved face.
‘These are the Laws so written down decades ago, by a young Lord Unwin.
So, this playhouse is an affront to the will of King Cearo...it is indefinitely closed.’
A great wail came up from the crowd. But they were lucky to get that much manner from Hagrin.
‘Captain! See here!’
Olivier, shuddering, rose to his feet doggedly. He rushed up the left side of the stage, taking the stairs as he spouted ‘See here! I shall not have this house made CLOSED, do you understand me? I wrote the play,’ he added quickly. ‘I shall not stand for those who are innocent to suffer this!’
The Captain Hagrin seemed oblivious. He rolled his tongue lavishly as he spoke--the rest of his body a statue and his eyes unmoved.
‘Those involved are held...responsible,’ and his eyes scanned the tiers, quieting all murmurs to a mere whisper. Swiftly, there was a huge movement along all the hundreds of seats, and all the audience, including the peasants on the floor, began to filter out as quickly and efficiently as humanly possible. But Torgalas, a mere "tourist" of the region, was not phased. He ducked behind a banister amidst the blur of departures and the clamor, and he became but a thin shadow. He listened...waiting, watching.
And lo, Olivier’s face turned. He looked old--his face horribly gaunt--as if some invisible makeup had worn away. He spoke his words evenly and with no spices in them. His efforts, his hardships...the play was fading before his eyes. The mere thought made his manner sour, and his tongue forked his dry words. His facade was gone, and the real man behind the well-planted actor seeped through alarmingly.
‘No more words, knave. Hear me!’
At that, the Captain Hagrin stood forthright before him, bearing down his massive height over the playwright’s seemingly tiny frame. Olivier tightened, poised in a readied stance, as if he were a thief spotted red-handed at the threshold of a noble estate’s door. But, he straightened. He seemed prepared. There were a few stragglers who cocked their heads back and gave a quickened glance at the scene, but nothing more. They wished not to be caught in the storm. They sped off.
‘This play speaks the truth, and it is not to be denied,’ Olivier strove in his stiff, restricting tone, measuring his words carefully, picking out anymore anger he had and concealing it. But he was visibly haggard--the sting of a condemned playhouse loomed well before him. His production would be more than halted if the Militia decided to condemn. Within the Golden Castle, “condemn” meant such as death--death for the theatre--the sustenance Olivier breathed. He could see it now in the face of a laughing, smiling King.
‘And the Law stands, and you have disturbed the King’s peace. Your heresy is ended, your play dispersed.’ A shade of succor came over the Captain’s livid face, as if Cearo and Lord Unwin himself were patting his back, ‘And thy theatre condemned.’
Olivier struggled, and he vainly yelled. He appeared little more than an old man standing before a group of Sanitarians did, who would soon whisk him away to Asylum. ‘Damn you. Damn you.’
‘I’ll have no more of this!’ quietly seethed Hagrin in a perfect, mixed return of spite and frustration. He promptly took the top-end of his halberd staff and stuffed the sharp tip against Olivier’s chest. It did not puncture through, though. Olivier felt the force, nonetheless, and he got the idea. He calmed down.
Silently, the bowmen tucked their arms around Olivier’s elbows. They whisked him off through an unseen exit in in the rear, to whatever punishment awaited him. The Captain exited stage left, and silence forever permeated the emptied, gloomy theatre.
Torgalas scanned the sounds outside, his ears searching. Behind the wooden walls he could hear the tame cackle of several drunken ruffians down a narrow alley. Further, he could hear the bail and bray of two mules, pushing along a dusty, timeworn caravan--probably a family heirloom, he vaguely reasoned. A monk was escorting it along, keeping his footsteps paced quietly and easily-along as possible and his face concealed by a somber hood. But it did not matter to the ears, no.
Even further, down a few blocks, Torgalas heard cockcrow...and the first, breaking sunlight could be felt slithering over the distant horizon, over the hills, and at last for the Golden Castle. Its flash reminded Torgalas of the transition coming...the looming of sultry days and long nights.
Summer.
Several minutes later, after some negotiation, Torgalas made it out of the theatre untouched and unseen. He peered a moment into the distilled, white light of the early morn. The area was empty, and the moist dirt of the ground was not paved with pebbles and graveling, as with the richer districts. Houses loomed above, jammed side-by-side--they outlined a cul-de-sac around the theatre. Most were made of wood and plaster, with thatched roofs. Torgalas sped away; he was searching for the crowd that had just left the theatre.
To his small humor, he scouted out a small group of derelicts being detained by some Militia. One-by-one, they were all dealt by with by the “Law”.
‘But I didn’t "at-tend" no play,' seethed a stub-armed, incensed old beggar. He waved his one good arm frantically, and two militiamen caught it like it was a wavering fly. They half-dragged, half-whisked the elder by his good arm’s elbow to wherever. Torgalas felt both stricken funny and sympathetic, and he slowly felt himself submerged into a twinge of sorrowful pain for the old, bald-headed soul that had seemingly done nothing wrong but clutter the street that was before a passing group of upper-classmen. He scoffed. Some “bastion of civilization”, he thought inwardly. He had reasons to be cynical and perhaps even spiteful. He would remember the day's injustices, if he had a good mind to.
Hearing a sound more welcoming--more appetizing--Torgalas perked an ear, and his mind ceased its strident drift. He closed in.
A mist and sullen steam rose off the ground.
It was then that Torgalas saw a large crowd pressed in a thickening circle. They surrounded a single dot in the center. They were tightly knit together, as if like a school of fish of sorts, vying for protection. At all angles, houses in the background had militiamen leaning against their cracked, chipped walls, their halberds at ease in their firm grips. They watched with a silent ferocity, unable to bully such a large gathering. Their tunics tussled forcibly--either by the sudden, windy gust or the touch of malevolence and magnetism reflected over their rough countenances.
And the bard was knelt in the center, his head ruefully downcast with shadows. In his hands he cradled a lute, strumming a tune out of it as thoughtfully as a sigh of relief. He shot a white glint of eyeball against a leaning militiaman before returning to his downcast gaze. And then one of the strums in the bard’s lute struck fancy a beat in the mind of Torgalas. As if in strange reply, the bard formed words at once.
And the bard’s voice then sang, and it rolled out like a valley of small, sunny-green hills. And whenever his voice trailed off a verse, it disappeared as naturally as steam rising from sandstone roads in the dew of dawn. And his heart-felt tone was then uplifted into the air in protest to the dark brows of city-roofs that encompassed him, and it carried off delicately to many grateful ears. And this swallow sang this song:
And I cannot presume a time
When I was left alone.
Had we many eves of worry?
Yes, it gnaws us to the bone.
For there are great evils abroad,
And they wander in our home.
Because the door is open--
Our cellar pilfered--
And we are now un-homed.
We are now un-homed.
To take a breath within golden towers
Is to live alone--
Is to walk un-homed...
B R O K I N A R
PS: homage goes to SRD for inspiration of using "un-homed" and the leper-finger!
Eh... *shudders* And I too think un-homed works (I don't think SRD hyphenated it).
