Princesscarbie
Virgin
- Joined
- Mar 30, 2020
- Posts
- 1
The Princess Of Light And The Prince Of Darkness
Mirna drew the fur collar of her cloak closer to her ears, the sharp, biting wind nipping at the end if her reddened nose. She stood outside the mountain lodge, where her father and the others sat around a long, rough hewn table, discussing the war in hushed tones over mugs of ale. The mountain air snaked beneath her skirt and twisted the loose curls of Auburn hair, sending a shiver down her spine, but she wanted nothing less than to return to the suffocating warmth and tense voices inside.
The tribes of the low lands had fallen one by one to the Invaders, a force described by some survivors as demons, led by Chort, the dark prince himself, the embodiment of evil, enslaver, they called him. The tribes united under her father, who they named king, but even through several victories the enemy still advanced. Only the mountains remained free, and the lords retreated to the hunting lodge, where they planned to regroup.
Mirna wasn't sure she believed the superstitions, but now standing alone in the dark, the deep shadows of the woods beyond the light of the lodge seemed like a portal to another world, and she felt a a deep and impractical fear. Just past the reach of the torchlight, where the trees formed a wall along the snow, she could swear she saw something.
"My lady." A voice made her jump and she spun to find a startled guard behind her, and she sighed at her foolishness.
"Please, it is cold and your father asks about you." The guard glanced warily into forest.
"The meeting is finished then?" She asked, and he nodded eagerly, motioning for her to return to the safety of the building. She offered him a comforting smile and made her way back inside, where the mood had lifted slightly and the men relaxed around the fire in the large great hall.
"Lànya! My beautiful daughter!" Her father was a large man with a lush beard that matched her own Auburn hair color, though it was greying with age in some places. He was clearly in his cups, and Mirna rolled her eyes as she joined him. She felt the eyes of his lords on her, she was not unseemly to behold; she carried a tall, statuesque figure, clear skin as pale as cream tinged with the pink flush of youth, and delicate features that gave a certain power to her glance. She took it in stride, and the fact that she refused to play the part of art made her even more appealing. She was often seen treating the wounded as they returned from the war, learning a great deal from the healers and making herself useful where she could. She'd held more than one hand as it's owner slipped away into the afterlife, and warriors joked that of they were lucky their last sight would be of the princess. Then there were rumors of prophecy.
Generations ago, her ancestor ruled as queen. It was said that she had magnificent powers, abilities granted to her by the Gods to cement her rule. Upon her death she declared that only one worthy of rule could inherit her kingdom and her gifts. Her descendents would offer the power to them if they judged them worthy, and they would be known by her mark, a golden tree that was stitched into her banner. When Mirna was a baby, her mother had discovered a strange, golden birthmark on her shoulderblade, that looked remarkably like a tree. She hid it, and demanded all who had seen it keep it quiet for the safety of the child, but rumors spread. Now as the dark Invaders closed in on them those who had heard it grew anxious. Would she declare one of them worthy? Would she fall into the dark Lord's hands and be forced to give him the gift of the Gods?
She shed her cloak and bent to kiss her father's cheek, smelling the ale and something stronger on his breath. "I am going to retire." She said warmly. "Do behave yourself." Her father laughed jovially as Mirna turned and made her way down the hall to her chambers, yawning.
Mirna drew the fur collar of her cloak closer to her ears, the sharp, biting wind nipping at the end if her reddened nose. She stood outside the mountain lodge, where her father and the others sat around a long, rough hewn table, discussing the war in hushed tones over mugs of ale. The mountain air snaked beneath her skirt and twisted the loose curls of Auburn hair, sending a shiver down her spine, but she wanted nothing less than to return to the suffocating warmth and tense voices inside.
The tribes of the low lands had fallen one by one to the Invaders, a force described by some survivors as demons, led by Chort, the dark prince himself, the embodiment of evil, enslaver, they called him. The tribes united under her father, who they named king, but even through several victories the enemy still advanced. Only the mountains remained free, and the lords retreated to the hunting lodge, where they planned to regroup.
Mirna wasn't sure she believed the superstitions, but now standing alone in the dark, the deep shadows of the woods beyond the light of the lodge seemed like a portal to another world, and she felt a a deep and impractical fear. Just past the reach of the torchlight, where the trees formed a wall along the snow, she could swear she saw something.
"My lady." A voice made her jump and she spun to find a startled guard behind her, and she sighed at her foolishness.
"Please, it is cold and your father asks about you." The guard glanced warily into forest.
"The meeting is finished then?" She asked, and he nodded eagerly, motioning for her to return to the safety of the building. She offered him a comforting smile and made her way back inside, where the mood had lifted slightly and the men relaxed around the fire in the large great hall.
"Lànya! My beautiful daughter!" Her father was a large man with a lush beard that matched her own Auburn hair color, though it was greying with age in some places. He was clearly in his cups, and Mirna rolled her eyes as she joined him. She felt the eyes of his lords on her, she was not unseemly to behold; she carried a tall, statuesque figure, clear skin as pale as cream tinged with the pink flush of youth, and delicate features that gave a certain power to her glance. She took it in stride, and the fact that she refused to play the part of art made her even more appealing. She was often seen treating the wounded as they returned from the war, learning a great deal from the healers and making herself useful where she could. She'd held more than one hand as it's owner slipped away into the afterlife, and warriors joked that of they were lucky their last sight would be of the princess. Then there were rumors of prophecy.
Generations ago, her ancestor ruled as queen. It was said that she had magnificent powers, abilities granted to her by the Gods to cement her rule. Upon her death she declared that only one worthy of rule could inherit her kingdom and her gifts. Her descendents would offer the power to them if they judged them worthy, and they would be known by her mark, a golden tree that was stitched into her banner. When Mirna was a baby, her mother had discovered a strange, golden birthmark on her shoulderblade, that looked remarkably like a tree. She hid it, and demanded all who had seen it keep it quiet for the safety of the child, but rumors spread. Now as the dark Invaders closed in on them those who had heard it grew anxious. Would she declare one of them worthy? Would she fall into the dark Lord's hands and be forced to give him the gift of the Gods?
She shed her cloak and bent to kiss her father's cheek, smelling the ale and something stronger on his breath. "I am going to retire." She said warmly. "Do behave yourself." Her father laughed jovially as Mirna turned and made her way down the hall to her chambers, yawning.
Last edited:
