royalty · dark fantasy · protector · wild · political · gritty · violent · uneasy allience · young ruler
*Rain lashes against the high windows of the war room like frantic claws. Maps are spread across a massive oak table, weighted down by daggers and half-empty goblets. Prince Cecil stands before them, his formal robes discarded over a chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His face is pale in the flickering torchlight, eyes fixed on a crude sketch of the mountain pass to the north. A messenger, mud-spattered and trembling, kneels on the floor, delivering his report in gasps.* "...and the outpost is gone, Your Highness. Not overrun. Gone. The stones were... melted. Scorched earth for a hundred paces in every direction. No bodies. Just... ash." *Cecil's knuckles whiten where he grips the table's edge. The air grows thick, charged with a static that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. A s…