Chronicles of the Sword in the Stone (remastered and continued)

Chapter 8: The Face of Evil

It is said that stormy weather can be a sign of an ill omen. Rain emblemizes the sorrow of tears as they pelt the earth like mallets. The lightning symbolizes the sudden flash of terror, followed by the boom of thunder that symbolizes cries of regret. Such weather acts as the opening of the curtain for a terrible tragedy, and such is the case of the weather on this particular day. Thunder and lightning crackled along the sky over a dense wood sitting at the foot of massive mountain, where nestled within a near unnavigable forest maze was a massive manor. From within the ghostly villa, a number of sounds could be heard, the loudest of which being several voices hollering out with songs of victory. Inside of the manor and in a large dining hall could be found a rowdy crowd of men. They were drinking from large mugs and singing as loudly and as off key as they could, and several had broken out into a massive brawl instigated by an ugly look. Several more were making suggestive looks at the frightened maids, all of whom prisoners from the many villages they raided, that were busily going to and fro refilling their mugs and ultimately trying to avoid eye contact. Sitting above them all in a throne of oak was perhaps the wildest of them all. He was a massive brute of unquestionable strength dressed from head to toe in black bear skin that was parted at his chest, revealing a large tattoo of a bear's head. His hair was also an oily shade of black, and it ran down past his shoulders. He also possessed a dark complexion and short black beard. He was a monster of a man, and he simply devoured the scene before him with his blood red eyes. He was Averil the Wild, and he and his band were untouchable. Placing his powerful palms upon the rests of his throne, he arose, and immediately a hush fell amongst his men as they looked to him in reverence.

"My loyal friends!" he called out with a loud voice. "Let us take this time to slow down and recount our most recent conquests. In this very week alone, we have taken three villages..."

There was a loud cheer.

"...burned down four farms..."

An even larger cheer erupted from the men.

"...acquired quite a few lovely ladies..."

There was a chorus of whistles this time, causing many of the women present to shiver.

"...and, best of all, we have done it all without so much as a challenge from the so called king of England!"

This time, the men cut loose with a grand cheer.

"So, by all means my dear followers." he threw out his arms. "EAT, DRINK, AND BE MERRY! WE ARE UNTOUCHABLE! Huzzah!"

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH!"

As his men continued to cheer, Averil took a seat in his thrown once more, taking a freshly poured mug from a nearby maid and gulping it down in one swig.

"Ah! 'Tis the good life. I swear that absolutely nothing could go wrong now. Or my name isn't Averil the Wild."

Suddenly, the doors of the great hall suddenly flew open as a ghastly wind blew out all of the torches. The singing and shouting suddenly stopped, and all eyes were glued to the doorway. Standing there was a lone, small figure all dressed in a concealing black cloak. The only part of them that was visible was their chin, a very pale protrusion. The figure strode into the room with clear confidence, and it would occasionally toss glances from beneath its hood to the nearby men. It stopped when it had brushed past one of the maids, whom was cowering on the floor with a tablecloth clutched tightly in her fist. The figure lifted their face, and the woman could now see the face of a fourteen-year-old girl.

"Get on your feet! Show some decorum!"

The woman immediately snapped to attention, even straightening her spine. Though carrying the voice of a child, she wielded the authority of a monster. Those dark brown eyes of hers were nothing more than two endless voids of evil and darkness. The girl continued down the massive dining hall until she was standing before Averil, whom seemed more annoyed than threatened. He sat lazily upon his throne, his new mug halfway empty, and he fixed the figure with an easy look.