A Shade of Paradise

Prologue: Shadows in The Trees

It was the trees that unnerved sub commander Mendar the most, as the party processed through the unyielding shrouded forest, sharp with the scent of pine needles, dead long ago, like the trees themselves. However, it was not the age or even the gnarled black and unhealthy pallor of the moss and fungi speckled trees that made the veteran shudder. It was the form of the trees themselves, contorted and twisted in agony, lifting their strained and gnarled branches upward, as if crying out for salvation from their damnable, wretched fate.

It was the time of year when every breath sent the frigid fingers of winter down the throats of men and caused annoying pin pricks and needles of pain within. Thus the thickets of trees were encased in a seemingly perpetual prison of ice, only heightening the illusion of the demented pleas of the twisted branches and brambles.

Despite this the dark green foliage seemed desperate to cling to the protrusions of the maples and oaks that should have really succumbed to the rigours and austerity of the winter already. Consequently, the wild groves in this small nameless forest dominated by the Orithmont lowlands, still gave the impression of woodland shrouded in darkness so exorbitant that the mares plodded ground the snow had only barely caressed with its frigid fingers.

Indeed, the sun, a mere watery yellow sphere of little heat and less comfort to Mendar, cast inadequate, transparent rays of light onto the sodden mud of the forest floor.

The mounted men at arms cast uneasy glances, shifting about in their musty, cracked leather saddles. There was an ancient hush to this forest, a silence that stretched through the veins of land, that was absorbed greedily by the dark, wet soil. This lamentable shrouded glade was only known by the old vultures and the grizzled mercenaries. They called it the Wild Murk, and perhaps never has such a name been more appropriate, never has such a name forced experienced killers to cower in fear, to tremble uncontrollably at that awful, wretched silence.

Mendar sighed, sending frost plumes outward, illuminated by the shining motes of the weak sun. He gave a wry smile, as bitter as the morning air.

Old vultures indeed.

It had been his title, like that of the nobility that only he had the right to wear, a right he had protected with naked steel. Those were glamorous and corrupt days, where the euphoric lust for battle and blood was all that concerned the life of the professional solider.

Those days were short lived. Ironically, for his services in the Winter Massacre, and the Doran War, he was granted the favour of nobility and was inexorably pulled into the political whirlpool of court intrigue like a decayed leaf, drawn down a stream. Why was it that even after such cataclysmic events, the shadows where the armies he had fought in were directed, and where the strings were pulled continued to rule everywhere he went?

It's a taint I can't escape. As long as I surround myself with fools and liars, the shadows will persist.

Mendar unclenched his mailed fist. The forest was simply an elaborate excuse. The revelation that every steel blade he had braved was for the preservation of a scheming, corrupt entity, the knowledge that he had been manipulated like a pawn, caused Lord Mendar to see writhing pools of enigmatic darkness everywhere. Paranoia had bestowed that rot, giving him a sunken sallow visage in the face of many sleepless nights. Here was an enemy that could not be touched and safety meant calculated exposure to all the nobility, all the sickly twisted men that gave his shadows substance.

Even so, Mendar still preferred to be alone, away from those people, those who surrounded him now; he cast a baleful glance at the obese pompous young aristocrat sweating profusely after only two hours of riding. Lord Orion Cresthold was the commander of the expedition and also, perhaps the most profound jackass Mendar had ever had the misfortune of meeting. He was, however, the nephew of Lord Casimir Cashel, the treasurer of the court and a man who was known for his calculated risks and was not afraid of insulting one of the lesser lords like Mendar. Lord Cashel took the liberty to do so now, relegating the old vulture to sub commander and placing his soft arrogant nephew above a battle hardened veteran.