Memoirs of a King

Stored away in the royal archives lies the personal testaments of a long past king. Within are locked revealing tales of an age of darkness. Part one.






"Down this way milord." The old scribe instructed as he led you deeply into the bowels of the Royal archives. "We are entering some of the eldest areas of the archive. I imagine none have traveled down this way for quite some time."

The old scribe, a wrinkly old man with few hairs of silver white on his eye, milky grey eyes from long years pouring over the royal records and blotchy skin that hung from his paper thin frame, made small puffs of dust with his little shuffling feet, kicking up nearly a centuries worth of dust.

The old stair you now descended after him bore the marked of long years of use ages ago. Though old, each step held firmly under your magnificent weight. "Hold on milord. Me sight ain't what it was some years ago an' I be reckonin' the dark further on you can't see past very well."

Halting impatiently, you wait as the wizened old man fumbles a near-by torch from its place along the wall then nods back at you once he finally holds with his right hand. "Apologies milord," he mumbles softly as he sees your impatient posture. You simply nod your acknowledgement and acceptance of his apology in response. This small gesture seems to placate the old man some as he gives a small smile before continuing down the stair.

As you are walking you easily grasp a nearby torch from its place and hold it aloft.

You see the end of the stair below you in the flickering light. The stale air holds is pungent with the dank odor of old parchment, kept here, below the newer, warmer sections of the archive. Thinking of the warmth above you shrug your shoulders forward slightly and use your free hand to close your elegant, fur lined cloak closer to yourself to stay the cold air from stealing what little warmth you still have.

The old scribe before you continues on, his old limbs creaking in the cold dark as he hadn't brought more than the light clothing he had been wearing above. "Just a few more isles milord," his voice, though still steady, has a pained note in it.

Considering the old scribe hadn't brought his obvious pains to your attention, you only move the torch you are holding slightly closer to him, knowing that any warmth, though silently offered, would at least help stave some of the cold from the man.

"Ah, here we are milord." Turning down an isle, he shuffles just a bit and looks at a stone shelf that had once been finely adorned with great craftsmanship. Reaching up, he points to a single shelf, being the only one to have more than a few scrolls. "This is all it milord. I would grab it down for ye, but me arms just ain't what they was back in the day."

You simply nod and stand to one side. The old man nods slightly. "I will leave you be then milord. I should send some of the younger scribes to ye after a few milord." You nod once more to the old man and watch as he departs from your magnificent presence.

Now alone you eye the shelf. Unlike the other shelves of the isle it is stacked full of not merely scrolls, but whole books, entire volumes of history from the previous age. The Dark Age, when there was only one Darkness in the world, one Evil, a Single Dark Lord who had nearly succeeded in a bid for dominance.

A nearby stone table sits at the end of the isle, as does three chairs, several lanterns and a brazier. Within the lanterns is enough fuel for quite some time and the brazier holds, despite the cold, amazingly well preserved wood within and a respectable stack nearby. Lighting the brazier, the darkness jumps back an awful bit, giving you a clearer view of the isle. On the wall you see an empty bracket in the form of a mighty dragon for the torch. Setting the torch in the bracket you look at the stacked wood more closely and find that it had long ago been enchanted to last long ages, as well as an old symbol as a now long dead domain that had once been the most revered of all lumber production.

Moving several of the thick volumes from the shelf to the stone table, you sit in the chair nearest the brazier, letting its warmth wash over you as you slightly caress the cover of the first book. Lifting the cover open to the first page, you find written in old ink: "The first chapters of my life as King, Meric 'Unto Howlwing"

Turning the first page over, you begin to read, feeling yourself drawn into ages of old.






As I sit here, writing this, I am but an old man grown to old to do much more than listen to my heart and wish to return to the open fields. Alas, these weary bones I hath are not long from passing from this world. I hath lived through dark times and hath seen my share of the world. Sitting here I go back to the day my life really began, the day I became king.

It was a glorious time then, many had arrived to see my coronation. Just the day before I had been saying my farewells to my father, Henrick, who had lived to the age of ninety-two before he had passed. So there I was, the coronation was much as I expected. Being the only son of my father, who had born some twenty-seven children to my mother and the woman who had replaced her after her passing. Of all those children, twenty-six
would be girls.

This had left no doubt as to who would be heir to the throne and I had not to fight any would be brothers in contention for the throne. The one thing I had not expected on my day of coronation was the delegates from the neighboring kingdoms. The fine gifts laid for me by these delegates were magnificent, gems of all colors, silks and many favorable offers of trade.

I was so pleased with the offers I accepted. My people, though strong and modest, were poor. My kingdom at the time was only a few centuries’ young, much as our neighbors, though they had started with better conditions than we. This day of my coronation would prove to change our financial status.

From the Dwarves I received seventeen large chests of their precious gold, a fine mail shirt of a light metal that could turn away even the greatest of weapons and a fine sapphire blue gem. From the Elves, I had received a gem of a great dark green gem, a fine belt, and a single chest of silver, valued by the elves above all other metals.

From my sisters I received a magnificent crown. As is tradition, with the passing of each king, so must his crown be reforged for the next. This crown fit atop my head much like a helm and held within four divots. From Tamriel, eldest of my sister's, who had taken an instant liking to the makings of blades, I received the gift of the finest blade I had ever seen. She was the best blade-smith of the whole kingdom already, and it hath been rumored that she had been working with Elf and Dwarf alike.

Later I would learn that she had indeed worked with the other peoples of our world. My very blade had been the first of her efforts with some of the Dwarvin and Elfish finest!

The blade had no name for my dear Tamriel had no such desire to name any of her work. I would name it Jen' Nren Al, or "Swift Razor" for it was the swiftest blade I hath held, sharp as a razor.

From the Royal council I received a Diamond. The Diamond fit snuggly in the foremost divot, the Sapphire gem to the left, and the Green Gem to the right of the Diamond in divots within my crown.

From the Royal smiths, and my sister Fariah, I received a suit of light armor. The royal smiths had aid from the dwarvin armor masters and elfish metal workers with Fariah leading the project.

These gifts are the most significant, memorable of all. The rest hath faded from my mind.


The week after my coronation, arrive at my door did a strange man from beyond the mountains to the east, for my kingdom lay to the west of our fair lands, surrounded by three to the north, west, and south. The strange man claimed to be a person of great import. So I allowed him into my halls and listened to his tales of great designs and of a brewing war and sides to be taken. He spoke of serving a master, of how following this great power would be the best course, and as a give of good intent, the may give to me a small plain wooden box.

Within lay a fine ring of gold with naught but a single black gem. I, thought naught of the trinket and said this to the man. "I no naught of this war, nor of this master ye speak of. If there shall indeed by a war and the sides ye speak of, I shall give ye'r offer some further thought. I promise nothing more and I find this ring to be less than a true gift, however, I accept it in the name of this supposed friendship."

The man seemed to find some great hurt with my words and spoke of great punishments and made clear that any who oppose this master would fall, and all who would resist would be laid to waste. He then spoke of great destruction. I listened to him prattle for some time, letting this strange fool of a man lay insult upon insult. Finally I had had enough.

"Halt your tongue." I commanded interrupting the fool. Tis then I notice the dagger at his belt. A weapon in a king's own halls was a sign of arrogance and great disrespect for any who hath not earned the trust to wear a blade in a king's presence.

I stood from my chair, under my shirt I wore the dwarvin mail, at my waist my elfish belt, Swift Razor at my side. "Ye prattle on about this great master and speak of punishments as if you were this great person or a very close associate of this master. Ye have plied insults, threats and injuries upon my kingdom and ye have seen fit to arm yourself with that dagger there in a Final Insult. Leave now and take this trinket with ye for I rescind my acceptance of the foul thing for I have other trinkets enough to adorn my fingers with have I the wish. Be gone!"

With that, my boot struck the box from the table, sending it into the fool's face. To this day I cannot fathom how I had done so. With a yell of frustration and I presume pain the man lunged to his feet and drew from his side the dagger. The guards within reacted with great speed yet were too far. The man jumped at me, looking to strike my neck. I shouted at the man, "foul fool!" Whilst backing slightly, my hand reached the blade at my side.

The fool, thinking I was afraid was near atop me, I had been centering my balance and Swift Razor proved to be as I had named, for it move through the leather that held it and seemed to instead of cutting the man, to simply slide through him. The blade had cut from just under his right arm, through his chest and came through the man's shoulder.

I had spun as I had swung, taking myself from the path of the dagger. I now stood behind the man. He stumbled forward and turned toward me. Not a mark! I readied myself for another go, the guards were now at my side. There would be no need. A strange look befell the fool, his face showing confusion. Looking down, a thin red line could be seen across his chest. With a single gasp the man fell, his arm, neck, and a part of his chest only then coming off.

Swift Razor was perhaps too fine a blade.




Blinking you look around the cold archives, a small platter of food sits at your side. Seeing this you suddenly feel a deep hunger fall upon you. Setting the book aside, you turn your attention to the food.