Ozoric
11-23-13, 04:55 AM
Prologue
In a chamber atop the highest tower of the Drakengard, Lancer Newalla ruminated on the morning’s activity. Deep in thought, he did not notice the doors open and Captain Aelfric enter. His long serving mentor stopped to gauge Ozoric’s mood before announcing his arrival.
“You will catch your death up here.”
Ozoric’s eyes unglazed as he returned to reality. He let out a long, catching yawn, and stretched. He set his cold, calculating gaze on the swordsman, and beamed a smile.
“You know I cannot feel the cold,” he reminded.
“So you keep telling me.” Aelfric advanced, heavy boots thudding on the aged planks. “If so, why are you shivering?” he asked. He pointed at Ozoric’s lips, which were quivering slightly. His skin was paler than usual, and his eyes sullen with fatigue.
“I…,” the youth began. He trailed off, looked away, and tried to remember how long he had been up here. “It has been a long morning,” he protested.
“It will be a longer afternoon, as the envoy from Corone has arrived.”
The news disheartened Ozoric, who had hoped to be able to rest through the rainstorms brewing in the north before tending to the diplomatic needs of his new station. The Knight Commander, the leader of the dragoons, had gifted to Ozoric the diplomat’s crown. He pinched the bridge of his nose to try to alleviate the growing pressure and dull ache.
“I had forgotten all about it,” he admitted.
“You have no need to rush up to the Aerie my boy.” Aelfric sat next to Ozoric, and rested a titanic glove on the boy’s shoulder. He pressed affectionately. “You have one more thing to do before she requires your presence.”
True enough, Ozoric’s many duties included sounding the Stormhold. In a few moments, he would have to rise to the upper chamber of the tower’s tip, press his lips against the behemoth horn that ran the length of the tower, and call in the dragoons. It was an honoured duty, one of the most important tasks in the Drakengard.
“I wish somebody else could do it,” he moaned.
At first, the call had given him a sense of pride and passion. Amongst the dragoons, he was a brother, and though he lacked title, dragon, and lance, they treated him equally. He was no longer an initiate, manure to scrape off their boot. He sniffled. Aelfric rose, stepped a few feet away, turned to look him dead on.
“You are going upstairs to blow the horn. You are going to get dressed, eat a hearty meal, and down something to calm your nerves.”
“Bu-”
“-and then you are going to go up those stairs. You are going introduce yourself to the envoy from the Ixian Knights. You will do exactly as the Knight Commander and Sei Orlouge ask of you.” Aelfric left no tone of doubt in his voice. It was a command, plain and simple.
Ozoric sighed, stood, and straightened out his tunic. The captain was correct. He had no place questioning the motives of his newfound allies. He had overseen the proceeds himself. Though the manner in which the dragoons and Ixian had bonded was anything but conventional, they were now as one. There was no one better suited to conducting the meeting.
“I swear,” he began. He walked towards the far door that rotated one final staircase to the horn’s mouthpiece. “If this ‘dragon knight’ is as arrogant as the rest…”
Aelfric watched Ozoric approach the door. Just as his foot touched the bottom step, he put the youth in his place.
“Dorian,” Aelfric quipped. “His name, Ozoric Newalla, is Dorian.” The burning glare he shot the youth left a mark of guilt long after he had disappeared up the tower. It lingered long after the Stormhold stopped vibrating with the deep, bass tone of a dragon’s cry.
In a chamber atop the highest tower of the Drakengard, Lancer Newalla ruminated on the morning’s activity. Deep in thought, he did not notice the doors open and Captain Aelfric enter. His long serving mentor stopped to gauge Ozoric’s mood before announcing his arrival.
“You will catch your death up here.”
Ozoric’s eyes unglazed as he returned to reality. He let out a long, catching yawn, and stretched. He set his cold, calculating gaze on the swordsman, and beamed a smile.
“You know I cannot feel the cold,” he reminded.
“So you keep telling me.” Aelfric advanced, heavy boots thudding on the aged planks. “If so, why are you shivering?” he asked. He pointed at Ozoric’s lips, which were quivering slightly. His skin was paler than usual, and his eyes sullen with fatigue.
“I…,” the youth began. He trailed off, looked away, and tried to remember how long he had been up here. “It has been a long morning,” he protested.
“It will be a longer afternoon, as the envoy from Corone has arrived.”
The news disheartened Ozoric, who had hoped to be able to rest through the rainstorms brewing in the north before tending to the diplomatic needs of his new station. The Knight Commander, the leader of the dragoons, had gifted to Ozoric the diplomat’s crown. He pinched the bridge of his nose to try to alleviate the growing pressure and dull ache.
“I had forgotten all about it,” he admitted.
“You have no need to rush up to the Aerie my boy.” Aelfric sat next to Ozoric, and rested a titanic glove on the boy’s shoulder. He pressed affectionately. “You have one more thing to do before she requires your presence.”
True enough, Ozoric’s many duties included sounding the Stormhold. In a few moments, he would have to rise to the upper chamber of the tower’s tip, press his lips against the behemoth horn that ran the length of the tower, and call in the dragoons. It was an honoured duty, one of the most important tasks in the Drakengard.
“I wish somebody else could do it,” he moaned.
At first, the call had given him a sense of pride and passion. Amongst the dragoons, he was a brother, and though he lacked title, dragon, and lance, they treated him equally. He was no longer an initiate, manure to scrape off their boot. He sniffled. Aelfric rose, stepped a few feet away, turned to look him dead on.
“You are going upstairs to blow the horn. You are going to get dressed, eat a hearty meal, and down something to calm your nerves.”
“Bu-”
“-and then you are going to go up those stairs. You are going introduce yourself to the envoy from the Ixian Knights. You will do exactly as the Knight Commander and Sei Orlouge ask of you.” Aelfric left no tone of doubt in his voice. It was a command, plain and simple.
Ozoric sighed, stood, and straightened out his tunic. The captain was correct. He had no place questioning the motives of his newfound allies. He had overseen the proceeds himself. Though the manner in which the dragoons and Ixian had bonded was anything but conventional, they were now as one. There was no one better suited to conducting the meeting.
“I swear,” he began. He walked towards the far door that rotated one final staircase to the horn’s mouthpiece. “If this ‘dragon knight’ is as arrogant as the rest…”
Aelfric watched Ozoric approach the door. Just as his foot touched the bottom step, he put the youth in his place.
“Dorian,” Aelfric quipped. “His name, Ozoric Newalla, is Dorian.” The burning glare he shot the youth left a mark of guilt long after he had disappeared up the tower. It lingered long after the Stormhold stopped vibrating with the deep, bass tone of a dragon’s cry.