Crimson Sky: Eternal Sunset

Chapter 1

Listen to this tale, old as the air and new as baby's breath. Listen, child and ancient, to this story of the End of Days.

Lark Hayward is a common man, born of uncommon heritage. The achievements he would have reached in his life could have been unsurpassed, if the sun hadn't been eaten. Our blessed Asta Zura, sun goddess and bringer of Life, has been consumed by a monster of the hell realm, known as the Netherbeast. In these dark twilight hours of the end of days, I start our story.

Lark headed toward the kitchens to beg a snack from the mistress who ran things there. The smells of baking bread and succulent meat dishes wafted through the air for several hallways before he ever saw the door to the kitchen. He'd been studying hard with his mentor Airech Gangrenge, the famous scholar and mage. Decorated by the King and Queen for his services to the realm, it was an honor to be given even a few minutes of his time. Lately, Lark had gotten more of his mentor's time than ever before. The more time he spent with the old man, the more surly Master Gangrenge became. Park of Lark worried that it was related to his studies or to something he had done, but the old man would occasionally reassure him that the pressure that the Master was struggling under was from something else. Lark was starting to worry about the old man's health, and frankly about the state of his mind. Master Gangrenge was once an active man, roaming the halls full speed, or as fast as an 80-something year old human can go, and speaking with everyone he came across. A friendly man, well liked by people at every echelon of power, it frightened Lark that he'd found his Master staring out of his window almost every day recently.

He shook his head to clear his worries, his light brown hair was damp with sweat from his studies with Master Gangrenge and stuck to his high forehead. The dark locks were a stark contrast to his pale skin. He tumbled lightly down the last few stairs to the kitchen with the fluidity of a young athlete. He stepped through the side entryway and stepped off to the side so he could pause and take a deep breath. He loved the kitchens. The savory scent of the roasted boar on the spit over the fire, hunted earlier that morning by his older brother, wafted through the air mingled with the scents of fresh baked bread. Fresh baked bread was a luxury that Lark fully appreciated. In fact, he deserved a bit of that bread after working so hard that morning. He stepped out from next to the door and crossed the kitchens with long strides. The servants ducked and dodged his approach with practiced ease. It was well known that he appreciated their skills. He said so, loudly, at almost every meal.

"Mama Alma!" He called, his rich baritone floating across the kitchen. The head of the kitchens stood next to stewpot, testing its contents. The new potboy looked on nervously.

"Mama Alma!" He called again. Mama Alma, turned to look in his direction and the fire's light highlighted her surprisingly thin frame. He'd heard once to never trust a skinny cook, but he trusted Mama Alma with his life. Quite literally since she was in charge of what he ate most days. Her black hair was held back by a handkercheif and twisted into a sweaty bun at the base of her neck. She stood a head taller than the new potboy, but that barely came to Lark's chest. The only part of her body that fit the expected look of a cook was the area right around her hips. If Lark were an older man, or Mama Alma a younger woman, he'd appreciate her figure in more than one way. But alas, she would always be Mama Alma to him. Almost a second mother, watching over him as he toddled around ignored by his older brothers and sister. The youngest of his family, he didn't have the same expectations on his life as the others did.

She waved a wooden spoon in greeting then nodded at the sideboard loaded with different breads. He could feel his mouth watering at the mere thought of the crackling crust. He followed her suggestion with relish, selecting a loaf of bread about a foot long and five inches around. He held it up to just under his nose and inhaled slowly and deeply. The warm scent of the glazed crust made him drool rather unappealingly. He cracked the loaf in half and smelled the wheaty inner bread, it's scent softer but much more moist. He grinned a devilish grin and bit heartily into the half he held in his right hand.