Equestrium: The Blood of Tyrants

Prologue

The boggy marshes of the North were a difficulty to navigate at a slow pace, let alone a hurried one. For every large step the man took, mud, or what he hoped to be mud, splashed in his face, coating him with the dirt and grime of the swamps, the cold of the night struck deeper than any steel sword could.

The sound of horse riders pursuing behind him, the feeling of slamming his boots on the mud of the bleak and barren wasteland. Damn you, Gareth. Damn you, he silently cursed himself, he knew that practicing magic was punishable by death in the North. I thought myself more subtle then I am in actuality. He'd hoped that he could catch a boat to the West before anyone had found out, how could he have known that those sailors charge damn more than what they were worth? 10 golden coins? He scoffed silently, yet he couldn't help but gape at all the past grievances he'd suffered at the hands of those damned Northerners.

Such as the time when he was seen to have potential for magical capability, and his uncle tried to turn him over to the Northerners by kidnapping him, and killing his parents. During the night in their camp, Gareth slit his throat open ear to ear for that, he found the act of it rather simplistic. Although his uncle's eyes staring back at him for some type of amnesty, only to receive none still haunted his dreams.

Another sin against him, was when he was promised to the princess Rose, of the West. He'd remembered how the marriage would grant him legitimacy as a lord, yet he also recalled that the marriage was called off, in favour of her being wed to a Northern lord instead. "We apologize, but the marriage must be called off, it's all politics, believe me." The messenger had told him. Politics, bah! A slight against my magical abilities most like.

The most inexcusable of all the slights against his very name? His only semblance of family left, his elder brother, John, was killed in a battle in Rivington, in a battle against the North some years back. It always comes back to those bloody northmen. The merciless savages had taken everything from him, his family, his name, his very identity, taken. And now they chase me through a marsh of dirt and horse shit, he thought bitterly to himself.

Despite this, he continued to run. If the Northerners are to kill me, I'll at least make them work for it. His legs became heavier and heavier the more that he fled, he could feel the weight becoming more and more until he couldn't bare to sprint at this pace, he looked back and the last thing he remembered was getting hit with the blunt end of the man's sword, and all turned to black.

He woke up in an equally dark and dank cell, as his eyes slowly but surely adjusted to the pitch black darkness, he saw that he was bound by his ankles as well as his hands with iron shackles. He saw that the Warden of the prison was looming on the other side of the cell, grinning at him as if he'd heard the greatest jape ever told. Gareth dare not point it out, he knew that he was in the North, and if he was in the North, he was going to die, best not upset the hand who swings the sword. As his eyes fully adjusted to the light, or lack thereof, he saw that the man looked much like akin to a snake, in that he was both incredibly gaunt and tall. He also had eyes as green as a viper, Gareth was sure that if he'd stare into the man's venomous eyes that he'd die of poison.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, for however longer you'll remain, that is." The man seemingly hissed at him.

"Where am I?" Gareth asked, playing the fool.

"The North, where else? You thought you could flee?"

"I swear, I did naught wrong." Gareth heard himself say.

"Silence, worm!" The man hissed at him. "You dabble in the arts of witchcraft, a capitol offence here in the North, you're lucky that your throat's still intact."