#red mountains

Sending out some sketches into to void!

King Mae of clan ironfist ,pre coronation (L) and after slightly older after a long battle (R)

Red cliff of Sedona

The herald’s foot barely made it from the threshold before the door was slammed shut in his face. Rain like needles dampened the collar of his rich cloak and stung the exposed flesh of his cheeks, and his feet had frozen into numb blocks of ice. Already his presence was starting to turn heads. The Men of Esgaroth were a wary folk: anyone out of the ordinary was immediately noticed, and he had been questioned enough on his passage into this forgotten little town on the Lake. He caught the eye of a fish-peddler and quickly averted his gaze, at a loss for what to do. He cleared his throat and tried once more. “Your— Prin— my Lord…” he said loudly, gritting his teeth and glancing over his shoulder. It wouldn’t do to bring attention to his mission. “Ignig!” He was still waiting, then. The voice that had told him to leave was cold and commanding, roughened perhaps with lack of sleep. When the herald had caught a momentary glimpse of the prince’s face, his hair was dishevelled and he was dressed simply in an unbuttoned shirt, loose trousers and his eyes were glassy. Despite the inclement weather, it was, however, midday. What was he doing here? “Then take my missive, my Lord,” he called back, “and then I can at least leave you in peace. Do what you will, but read the message. Your decision is… yours.” He could do no more. The door opened slightly and a hand darted out. In one quick motion, the parchment, sealed tightly with a stamp of royal wax, was ripped from his hand before he had time to think, and once more he was left on the doorstep. Sighing in resignation, he turned to leave, signalling the member of the Royal Household bodyguard who was waiting carefully out of sight to follow him. “How long do we wait?” the guard asked tentatively once they were out of earshot. “A week,” replied the herald, “and if he doesn’t come… then we return to the East.”

—

Steam rose from their bodies as they huddled around the table in the corner of the pub. The scent of rotting, damp wood permeated the close air, mixed with stale beer and the whiff of cattle. A few broken lanterns provided light to see by, and visible through the press of bodies around the bar were the bright flames of a roaring hearth. They were out of the rain at least. The young prince’s dwelling, if you could call it such, had a hole in the roof and a bucket on the floor. Four Men and the dwarf slept in two rooms, and it was bitterly cold. “Why live like this, my Lord?” he questioned gently, peering at Prince Fara, the heir to the throne of Nazbukhrin. The dwarf had his late father’s bearing — a stern expression, square shoulders, intense, dark eyes and skin, and a full beard that fell down to his mid-chest, plaited and tied. His mouth twisted in indignation. “It is better than living in Nazbukhrin. Anywhere, even here, is better than living under the corruption that my father has brought to our kingdom.” “But,” said the herald, choosing his words delicately, “the Iron Hills is not so far away. Surely you could have lodged with Lord Dáin? It would be… ah…” What could he say? It would be better than living like a pig in a pen? Slumming with Men who had not even a bronze coin to their name, where in the East, Prince Fara had untold riches waiting for him? The dwarf’s eyes softened in the candlelight. The anger had drained out of them, leaving them bereft of any emotion. “Lodge with dwarves who would look down on me for leaving my homeland? And what would they then say about the runaway prince, who forsook everything? Weakness—” Prince Fara drew in a shuddering breath, gnashing his teeth together. “It was weakness, they would assume. But they didn’t know… you do not know… what it was like to live in that palace. To know what my father was truly like. Imprisoning. Exploiting. Threatening. Frittering away the kingdom’s wealth. Oh yes— I know Nazbukhrin is breaking apart, its grand facade falling away to expose the decay within. He’s left the people with nothing.” The herald was silent. His loyalty had always lain with the Crown, but couldn’t argue with the Prince when he was so obviously right. “So you came here instead. Why Esgaroth?” he asked. Fara shrugged, fixing the herald with a measured gaze. “I just… came here. Fell in with some of the Men who were causing upset to the Master’s injustice, and I stayed. A few dwarves still work in these parts, but most are transient. Passing through. Nobody knows who I am or where I come from. No tainted gold from my father’s vaults to weigh on me. That is how I wanted it.” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Causing upset? Have you dedicated your life to causing trouble for the past fifty years, then?” The young prince smiled wryly. “Injustice isn’t just a plague that Nazbukhrin has. It is everywhere, ground into every town and city and village like dirt. Here, the nobles exploit the workers, who have barely enough means to survive. Like somewhere I left a long time ago.”