Author Games: A Knight's Valor

Task Seven: Male Entries

Cadosa Male: Zenith Nadir

PENDING

Raleith Male: Mavary Valls

I am being watched.

Mavary's core was uneasy, though his demeanor was calm and elusive. His hair was flattened down by the pouring rain as he stood outside the chambers- in fact, he was supposed to be inside at that exact moment, but nervousness ticked at his mind, killing it. He forced his eyes to appear tired, unaware, like whoever was staring down would assume less of him. The wooden door behind him was still slightly off its hinge, a crack in the door allowing in small droplets and pools of water. Mavary needed to return, to question the handsome prince into revealing he was the traitor. Mavary loved the prince and it hurt to burn his skin with interrogation, but it had to be done.

Or else he'd be killed.

Mavary Valls was the traitor.

No, he did not sign up for it. And no, he was neither malicious, nor bloodthirsty. He despised the part of himself that allowed others to be pained because of him. There was no way out; the Queen held too much power over him. Too much...

He looked back at the building as a tear fell down his cheek. Frightened. Diminished. Lost, Mavary descended to his lowest point. And, for the last time, he would obey the Queen's demands.

He would lie.

I'm sorry.

Alian Male: Eleos Eiríni

He's a wandering and wondering boy, Eleos Eiríni is.

It's been an exact week since King Artheur has been murdered - right before his very eyes, with arrows exposing a back painted in crimson paint - one week since he, Eleos, has been interrogated by knight after knight after knight. They were all a monotonous bunch, with the only highlight being that of their armor and weapons. Most of their knives and swords were held to his throat as he choked out answers to their wonderings anyways. Their questions held no true emotion other than shock. They - the knights and all their questions - were drab, a grey slate. Much like his own current state: dull, vulgar.

It was expected that the King's funeral would be a somber occasion, it does revolve death after all. But he never thought it would be so...so ordinary. He and the other trainees were awoken early, right at the crack of dawn, to assist the elder knights and servants in anything they may need. To extend a hand here while stretching a banner, to hold a stool down as someone pinned some sign on some wall, to act as a human spice rack as a snappy cook pinched here and there for the correct ingredient.

"Every hand will be needed," Roland Delmere had told them. And Eleos, being Eleos of course, listened. It's the only reason he's had so much time to think; everyone seems to be occupied, but not rushed in finishing their job.

I am useless, he thinks. I could not help the knight's with my answers; I cannot help the servants in the work.

But once in a while, he does here a distant echo of his name being said. Most of the time, it is just that: a whisper. Yet here and there, someone is truly calling him. And on the rare occasions that he is called upon, it is to assist with the drabbest of jobs.

Far more drab than these black curtains. Perhaps if these coverings would have a flash of color - a silvery outline, a golden stitching - then he would be a tad bit more pleased. But as it stands, he feels as useless as the...décor, if it could even be called that.