Prologue
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Shrubs.
Shrubs were difficult to keep from peeking out the Northern most walls’ cracks. Poisons of all types seemed feeble against these persistent coiling weeds, stretching and feeling their way through the king’s stone. Though Youth often found mindless joy in tracing out pictures in the cracks, sliding pudged fingers down and around in polygonal swirls, one such child would find a feathered fissure spreading from where his favorite knight was constellated. This gap, carved by the vines of the Youlteer forest, would be large subject of debate amongst the soldiers who guarded the Northern wall, as well as the hand maidens of the Bricketten Fort less than a day away. Had The Great T’Om’A known his impermeable wall would be crumbled by vines and twigs, he’d have scorched the woods outside it, centuries ago. That, perhaps, would have spared his kingdom the fate to befall it in the next winter; The collapse of the Sandre Towers.
The Dolcer, owners of the Bricketten Fort, were a house most notable for being the founders of the Pathol Herb. Once made to remedy the aches of loss and soothe the pains of heartbreak, many now saw Pathol as a drug stolen from the Youlteer Maers, the mystic demons of the Forrest. This did little to sway the reach of the family’s power. They still built along the entire north of Sandre, hanging banners on all their men could settle and Bricketten fort still sat on a high hill overseeing the wall and town square. Winds and rains attacked the cobble stone and as they did very little to chip at its wall’s face, neither could any man ever hope to tear it down. Vines, however, vines crawled and slithered along its edge, wrapping long fingers round the fixture as if nature had its grip on all man’s creations, big or small. The Green and white form was what stood as the pillar, most eyes slid to the moment they entered Bricketten. Not so much the flag that hung along it.
Logan, draped in black and cerulean attire, adjusted his sleeves and when he caught sight of the structure, grimaced deeply. The so called Happy Valley, reeked of the town’s highest commodity, Pathol. It ruminated like perfume through every pathway, and every alley. His face scrunched paling his nose and stretching his features. A rare expression here it seemed, because every person in the near vicinity seemed to give him tense looks. He was obviously, and outsider. A robust man spotted his unease and tentatively ambled his direction. Logan noted his suppressed smile, ruddy cheeks, and the way his brows seemed to leap comically from his eyes every time he caught Logan’s. He must have been a well-known man, with how every third person seemed to greet him on his way over. Of course in a place like this, Logan thought, It might just be the custom for all people. This made him snort at the moment the man reached him, who in tern dusted his fingers off on his clothes.
“Pardon my appearance, Sir. Logan. We weren’t entirely sure when you’d be making it. People often tend to make a left at Pyre Creek, but here we are at the right. Haha” The man laughed, thoughtlessly stroking the short beard he wore. How strange, Logan thought, to plan for the failing of others rather than the success, so ineffective.
“But, to be fair, I’d probably not look every different myself” He shifted where he faced and gestured that Logan follow, peering expectantly over his shoulder in wait. Logan looked the man over quickly, at his pale cream trousers, and pale blue cloak, and nodded before stepping to his side. He fanned ahead of himself, suggesting the man lead the way.
They walked in what Logan would have preferred to be silence, but was instead an exchange of questions and single word answers. The man named himself to be Ken of the house Guinne. Logan stilled for a moment, House Guinne held a substantial fortune and owned Castle KaJa off the Southern Bay. Few but the Lords handpicked by King Sandre could afford even lodging in the Maypel Sea. To have a castle there, Logan boggled. He picked up his step quickly enough to avoid the potential concern this Ken was sure to exude. Yet, now he felt as though he had little to no bearing on the mentality of those who chose to reside here. For the first time he was at a loss.
“ No need to feel nervous, Sir Logan. Our provincial Lord Patton is a kindly man. He would take no qualms with you, Regardless of your sour expression.” Guinne assured, seemingly feeling Logan’s apprehension.
It dawned on Logan that he hadn’t stopped scrunching his face against the town’s sweet odor. He relaxed his features as best he could, hoping it was passable. Couldn’t let his own partialities ruin this meeting on behalf of the prince, now could he. Such a display is against the image of the Logos region. His sleeves were adjusted again, and Logan spared Guinne a parting look as they neared House Dolcer’s North Manor. They both nodded and parted ways, Guinne offering a Mirthful laugh, and waving his way back to the Town center. Logan, however, paled at the etched stone mural on the manor’s gate, it was painted on with vibrant colors by what seems to be the town’s children. So taken aback by the sight, he nearly reached out to feel it it were real. With his nails barely reaching the paint’s edge, he heard a loud clank.
The defaced gate opened slowly, and thirty paces off, Logan could see the bronze haired lord being chased by a horde of children, yelping happily as he dodged their attempts at him.
“What have I agreed to?” Logan contemplated, incensed.
Believe me I suck 