Necessity's End

A Fallen Prince (Oswall)

The wind whistled beyond the trees as he rode up the hill. His crimson half-circle cloak flapped behind him, his greaves gleaming as he dug his heels into the stirrups. His hair was a lovely walnut brown, his eyes a brilliant cobalt blue. The links in his chainmail jiggled here and about as Swiftfoot slowed to a trot, and he kept a firm hand upon the reins. He had a clean-shaven face, aquiline nose, and full lips so red they may as well have been strawberries. A short sword in an ornate gold scabbard was strung upon his hip, a kite shield and barbute helm strapped tightly to his saddle.

He might have passed for any other common highborn knight, had it not been for the retinue that trailed behind him, keeping their distance but him firmly within their line of sight, the brightly-coloured banners upon their lances flying this way and that, a dozen or so fully armed and armoured horsemen, bearing a great many noble sigils upon their shields and surcoats.

There was a house atop the hill, an ancient hideaway of twisted oak and stained glass, half-covered by reeds at the bank of a water spring. A gravel path led directly to the thick wooden door, held in place by a cast-iron doorframe, neatly-trimmed bushes and a cedar fence lining the perimeter of the house. A lone lamp swung above the door, long gone unlit, its fuel damp and cold.

Four guardsmen stood at attention by the door, halberds perfectly sharpened and shined, long black coats hiding the sigils emblazoned upon their plate armour. Intricate inlay work ran the length of their pauldrons, their steely eyes hidden beneath the thin eyeslits of their pig helms.

He dismounted, albeit cautiously, leading Swiftfoot forward on foot with a tight gloved hand, carefully tying the reins onto a section of fencing, his other hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. He could almost sense the palpitating tension from the men behind him.

"My prince!" One of them called, riding ahead of the rest, hurriedly dismounting from his horse, mace and shield at the ready. His armour glinted a sterling red and white in the Sun, a black horned helm upon his head. Sir Arthor Umbridge of the Carmine Fountain, or so the lowborn had come to term him. One of the finest swordsmen to have ever lived, and damned near as honourable. "My prince Oswall," he spoke through his helm. "I would advise against this. Gods know what may be hidden within."

"It's alright, my friend." He -Oswall- replied. "I'm only meeting an old...comrade."

The knight considered this, nodded curtly, and stepped back to his horse. "Where would you have us wait for you?" He asked as he smoothly leapt into the saddle.

"Ride back to the crossroads," Oswall replied. "I don't expect this to be much of a short meeting. I'll return before it's dark."

The knight nodded again, barked a command to the others, and together they rode off, back down the hill, hooves kicking up clouds of dust as they ran.

Oswall, now alone, began to walk slowly toward the door, following the pathway and mounting the steps. The guardsmen seemed unalarmed to see him, but as he stepped closer he could sense the glare from their eyes like daggers upon his skin. "He's inside?" Oswall asked, looking at them expectantly.

But they said nothing in response, staring straight ahead, emotionless.

Oswall drew his sword, sliding it clean out in front of him. The guardsmen responded instantaneously, raising their halberds almost in unison, striking at him. He parried two and blocked another, but a fourth caught him in the neck...or it would have, had the man not stopped his swing in time. "Aye," Oswall smirked. "Now that got you moving."