fury

prologue

                                                          
              THE FURY
PROLOGUE
Home.
Some homes creak. And some homes groan. Some, they listen. Their windows watch and their walls, they talk. If only they could truly, oh the things that they would say...
The truth of the matter is, all homes are alive. Living, breathing beings full of such wonder and warmth and love... And crazed, little creatures scurrying about causing quite a ruckus as their mother shouts tiredlessly from the kitchen to wash and ready for bed before the Snowmans crawls out from where they sleep, armed with sharp claws and wet maw, ready to come and snatch them up and carry them away to a cold, dark land filled with all the bad little boys and girls who refuse to go to sleep! Or dreaded worse, eat their vegetables!
...
And yet, I digress.
...
The weary father sighs.
He pulls his chair up to the fire.
Tis a modest chair. Not a chair of kings or gods or goodly warriors and men. Just a chair. No frills. Unassuming in its size and stature. Unpretentious. Plain and simple. There's no lies there. Tis but a chair of wood and nail and adequate cushioning. And yet for such an ordinary piece of furniture, the man who takes his seat atop it, is anything but.
Though he's been known at times to have many, he needn't even say a word. Not lie nor truth or anything in between. Just sits and the whole of the home takes notice.
With perked ear and wide eye, the wild beasts stop in their tracks for all but a moment. Silence sits heavy and uneasy. Nothing more than a mere heartbeat before the feral ones take charge. A force of nature as they storm through the home to where the weary father sits. Their night shirts hanging off their shoulders. Their raven hair a mess. They wear smiles on their wicked faces. Giddy as they rush the seated man. For now's a time for stories. And stories he has many.
So gather round, children, and I'll tell you a tale. A tale filled with mystery and mirth. Tragedy and sorrow. Honors and loyalty. And lies. A tale of devious schemes and even more devious schemers. Fair maidens and gallant warriors. And quite the gallant villain, too. Of elves and meavels. And monsters old and new.
A tale spun of truth, not a tall one at all. I swear it upon my dear mother's soul! There be no lies within the pages of this story. Cross my heart...
For that is all we are, after all. In the end.
Stories.
Long, arduous stories with a beginning, middle, and an ultimate end. Some chapters happy, while others read sad. But all in all, lives made up of stories none-the-less.
So let's make it a good one, shall we?
Bright-eyed and eager, the two young boys huddle at the storyteller's feet, gazing up at the wordsmith in deep wonder. No book lay in his narrow lap, only narrative resides in his brain. And when he finally parts his lips to speak, all dare listen to his accounting of the tale.
And like so many tales, ours begins a long, long time ago in a galaxy far away...
No that’s not right it  begins with king