mythic
Baron
King Ulric paced upon the carpet before the throne in his castle in Calanhelm. Agitated as of late, but unsure why. Dreams, more like nightmares, haunted his sleep in recent months. His hand moves to the pommel of his sword, Destiny, almost absentmindedly, a reflex of a seasoned warrior. He has heard the whispers, heard the rumours that abound the city. “He is not all there”, “He is not fit to lead”, “He has issues of the mind”, “He’s more a rogue than a leader”, and more, and worse.
“Bah” he called out to no one, as no servants or allies stand within the great hall, his voice echoing out the chamber. His hands thrown up in disgust, he looks upwards, not at the ceiling, but past it, through it. He is lost in thought as one of the many servants rush into the room to see what the King could need. King Ulric stands motionless for several long heartbeats. The servants understand his foul mood as of late and quietly back out of the room, leaving the King to his own inner thoughts.
Finally, he relaxes his arms and his gaze follows them to the ground. Inspiration suddenly strikes at him. “I will prove to them once and for all that I am worthy of this crown. This crown I fought any and all who would oppose me those many years ago.” He says to himself as he pulls the crown from his head and slowly turns it within his grasp. His hands flow along the lines of gold from front to back.
King Ulric replaces the crown upon his brow, the weight seemingly lighter now. He calls out “Send for the ArchMage.” He does not need confirmation that his order was heard, his voice echoes through the halls enough so that all within can hear. A sly grin crosses his lips. Again, his hand absently falls upon the pommel of the Sword of Destiny. He pauses, then seats himself upon the throne, impatiently waiting for Az’Caine.
“Bah” he called out to no one, as no servants or allies stand within the great hall, his voice echoing out the chamber. His hands thrown up in disgust, he looks upwards, not at the ceiling, but past it, through it. He is lost in thought as one of the many servants rush into the room to see what the King could need. King Ulric stands motionless for several long heartbeats. The servants understand his foul mood as of late and quietly back out of the room, leaving the King to his own inner thoughts.
Finally, he relaxes his arms and his gaze follows them to the ground. Inspiration suddenly strikes at him. “I will prove to them once and for all that I am worthy of this crown. This crown I fought any and all who would oppose me those many years ago.” He says to himself as he pulls the crown from his head and slowly turns it within his grasp. His hands flow along the lines of gold from front to back.
King Ulric replaces the crown upon his brow, the weight seemingly lighter now. He calls out “Send for the ArchMage.” He does not need confirmation that his order was heard, his voice echoes through the halls enough so that all within can hear. A sly grin crosses his lips. Again, his hand absently falls upon the pommel of the Sword of Destiny. He pauses, then seats himself upon the throne, impatiently waiting for Az’Caine.