Kingsfall

The stripling king, scarce more than a boy, had just passed into the autumn of his twentieth year. Having ruled for just three so far, the whole kingdom dreamed of what would occur in the further years of young Goren’s reign. Out on a hunt, our king rode with his royal huntsmen. When a sable is flushed from its den, our proud Goren spares the beast for its dark eyes and gleaming coat speak to him of joy and sorrow. Noble, autumnal Goren, wise beyond his years, spends a quiet hour admiring the small creature before it once again bounds off into the dark of the wood.

Nought but a cough, a slight tickle in the back of the throat, and hardly cause for concern is their current fuss. Placating doting nurses and preening chamberlains is nevertheless a royal duty as any other. The crown weighs heavy and a weary autumn’s morn spent at rest does one a world of good. Royal missives and dispatches can be written just as easily from one's chambers as uttered from the throne.

“Round up and slaughter every poxy sable in the royal wood and beyond,” reads the order given by no king of this land. “Beware the healer, for their medicine is the plague itself. Only blood may cure this land,” screams a gathered mob outside the castle walls. Our noble Goren weeps at this condemnation of royal doctors, medicine women, and innocent creatures. No more can a sable be responsible for the spreading plague than any merchant on the road or mother to her babe. No more can a chirurgeon kill than can an angry drunkard... Though his hands shake with fading strength, our king’s furious pen speaks what his hoarse voice cannot. From within the garret that a prison of convalescence, our noble King Goren does his will unto the land. For his armorial crest he takes a sable rampant, and for his badge, places an oak branch into the claws of the same. Not content merely with matters of heraldry, long Goren issues a decree to all the loyal foresters of the king’s woods, that any who should slay the saintly jet-black stoat in the name of plague-rumor shall henceforth hanged be. To all an oath-keeping healer, a royal protection shall extend that all who threaten a royal doctor or village medicine women shall be charged with the most heinous murder and spared not the axe if guilty.

A calm autumn's day dawns with a cool breeze from the east. The winds of northren cold have not yet come, yet herald their presence with the scent of mouldering leaves. Chirurgeon and black-furred forest denizen alike enjoy a day of respite from the axes of falsehood. All is calm and quiet in the kingdom of Valendon. From the blood of Aldenric to the Farforii of the Dovenwood, none can find fault in such an agreeably tranquil day. Truly now, nought can go wrong. In the towers of Crownstone castle, a watchful vigil near its end. As evening descends, the far off mountains gleam with ruby hues. Our noble King Goren closes his eyes…

“Goren is gone, Goren is dead.” None raise this call in pride even among those who mere months before called for the blood of ermines and midwives. The whole kingdom mourns the loss of their young king. In his brief years, he showed a rare wisdom of the kind that is surely now gone from the land for an age to come. Long are the lines of black-clad folk, marching slowly, somberly to the south. From old crumbling Crownstone draped in cerecloth they wandered. Following the royal procession they shambled, each as lonely spirits hoping to glimpse the green silks and pallid mask of our noble King Goren. Clad in gold and green, grey of countenance yet adorned in rubies was our king as he was laid that day into his barrow. His memory we all swore to preserve…

The night is cold, yet moonlit. Your footsteps and ragged breath are the only sounds to pierce the pall of silence. To wander alone among the royal tombs on such is to invite the spirits to dance before you. Take heed and steel yourself, for if you listen, they will sing of forgotten times. The spirits will sing of forgotten kings in forgotten days when Crownstone stood to the north. Among these old barrows and dolmens, one can hear tales of lethal excesses, of royal murder and palace bloodshed. However, one can also hear songs of tragedy, of royal children stricken from the world by the cold hand of fate. If you listen closely, you may even hear the lay of Goren the first, a king scarce into his twentieth year, and of how centuries ago the land was nearly lost to plague and pestilential thought…