The Savage

Part 2: Chapter Seven: Steffan

In Daear, east of the Midlands is an expansive portion of land the natives still refer to as the Lower Lorals. On a map, however, it would say The Cors swamp. The old religion was said to believe this was the resting place of the dead. Sitting on the edge of this massive wetland, on the only high ground for a hundred miles, once stood an obelisk of this old religion. It used to be a place of pilgrimage for those that believed in the old way. It stood three hundred feet high, up until Steffan's grandfather took the throne. The land surrounding is miles and miles of marshy forests. Ankle deep water covers the forest floor and it contains the best boar hunting in the country. Because of the rich hunting opportunities surrounding the sacred place, the previous King tore down the monument and built an estate to stay during hunting events. It was here that the first hunt of spring was held.

Extensively planned and highly anticipated by the higher members of both court and council, the springs first hunt seemed to arrive earlier with each passing year and the journey to the Lower Lorals seemed to take longer and longer. A tradition that had been passed down through the dynasty of his forefathers, Steffan had participated every year since he was old enough to hunt. But as he aged and his body now clicked and creaked, the chilly hunt no longer held the same appeal it once did. To cancel the event was unthinkable, so Steffan rode dutifully along, stiff in his saddle amongst the wet chill of the morning of early spring.

Dressed warmly, he wore a doublet of leather and wool of deep crimson, a repeating patten of blodyns embroidered in gold across the wool side of the garment. The crown Steffan wore was gilded blodyns entwined together with small bright rubies in their centers. Despite his finery, the misting rain that had plagued them since they rode out had soured his mood. Having been leading the party, Steffan reigned in his mount as he emerged from the tree line into a meadow. The clouds parted and the sun finally shone down on him, instantly warming his dampness.

A petite gray dapple mare with it's also petite rider came to a halt beside him, "Not tired already, your majesty?" asked the rider, in a musical voice.

He was, but he spun in his saddle to smile at her. Lady Bryallen Flowers pretty, voluptuous and shameless. She was his mother's attempt to placate his recently foul moods. Had Steffan not liked Lady Flowers so much, he might have minded. Bryallen was only a year older than Davyth and married to Lord Heilyn Flowers, a man fifty years her senior who frequently suffered from gout. She was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, a self made man with new money. Heilyn was from an old lineage and had gambled away his family's money and had married Bryallen for her inheritance in order to restore his name. They were rarely at court.

In the morning light, Bryallen glowed with youthful radiance. A single cinnamon colored curl had escaped her veil and lay across her forehead. Atop her veiled head she wore an olive green suede riding hat, decorated with three large black plumes. The matching habit complimented her skin tone and hazel eyes.

"Not at all, Lady Flowers, I'm simply being courteous to my guests." Steffan replied.

"Don't hold back on my account, your majesty." Bryallen insisted with a smile.

"Certain you can keep up?" Steffan asked.

Bryallen guided her gray mare closer to him and lowered her voice, "I think, your majesty, you'll find I am quite capable of riding all day." she said gazing at him intently.

He turned away from her to conceal his blush as he chuckled.

As the morning turned to afternoon and the afternoon began to darken, the boars continued to elude them. Spirits, that at the beginning of the day were high, were now dashed. Despite having no kill to celebrate, it was discussed and agreed upon that they would break early for the evening meal. Steffan wasn't the only one feeling saddle sore.