Roses, strewn softly across aged stones, littered the courtyard, drops of ruby against jagged planes of gray. Above, heavy thunderheads suffocated the air, draining the color from the landscape. Resonating peals of thunder shook the old stones, the earth quivering under the sky's touch. Lightening cracked the open skies, and from the heavens came a torrent of bitter rain, staining the crimson flesh of the petals deep burgundy.
In the center of the bleak courtyard, a black figure stood motionless, his rich clothes drenched amidst the downpour. A gleaming silver breastplate adorned his broad chest, ornamented with delicate emblems crafted of gold leaf and precious gems. Thick layers of inky silk hung carelessly over the shoulders in a rich cascade. Black leggings complemented soft deerskin boots, threads of silver embedded in tenuous swirls upon the leather. A simple hand and a half sword hung upon a jewel-encrusted belt, the unadorned blade markedly out of place. The entire ensemble cost five years earnings of any workingman, an exorbitant testament to the Empire's wealth.
Wet strands of shaggy, dark hair lay plastered against tanned skin, bronzed from a lifetime of exposure to the elements. Steely gray eyes peered distantly from beneath the mane, lost in hollow thought. Callused fingers trailed absently over the pommel of the blade, alternately gripping and releasing the worn leather hilt. One hand vaguely stroked an emblem, carved into the smooth silver armor.
Etched gracefully upon the face of the breastplate, a spiraling flame twined seamlessly with the skeletal frame of an onyx dragon; below, a submissive crimson form coiled, wings flared outward to cradle the symbol. His eyes grew hard as he traced every gem-encrusted line, the image permanently engraved in his mind. In him, it had once inspired awe and anger, pride and fear, power and exile; now, only a dull apathy accompanied the sight.
He bore a rigid and disciplined countenance, betraying no sign of emotion even as thunder shook the foundations of the castle. Silently turning his face skyward, he let the rain wash his skin, the icy drops running under the cold metal of his armor and raising goose bumps on his skin.
Only minutes earlier, a morose crowd had filled the court, silently acknowledging the newly crowned Prince of Uru'baen. Sweet rose petals were tossed from woven baskets into the heavy air, blood red in the misty light. Nameless nobles, sworn to secrecy, had bowed their head in submission, in their eyes glints of greed, awe, respect... and overwhelming fear. A new Rider had risen to instigate a blossoming age of terror and bloodshed, to uphold the mantle of Dragon King.
And they were afraid.
Murtagh let out a mirthless chuckle at the thought, his breath escaping in frosty plumes. The rain pattered noisily against the slick metal of his armor, and his clothes had long since abandoned any semblance of dryness. The crowd had fled as the first cracks of lightening rent the sky and wind whistled through crumbling stone columns, harbingers of the coming storm. He refused to move, however, having found a rare solitude.
You're never truly alone, a part of him noted dimly. Even now, he watches you through the tower windows, always watching, always waiting.
A reassuring thought, a rich voice, so like his own, remarked gently.
Murtagh sighed, his isolation shattered, though the presence was not unwelcome. Shivers wracked his frame now, and his hands were numb, the skin white in the cold. It had been worth those precious minutes alone, he thought ruefully.
Reassuring only if you're him, he retorted. By some unspoken consent, they never spoke his name unless absolutely necessary. It kept them both sane.
A distant rumble of laughter reverberated through the contact. Did you enjoy yourself today?
Did I enjoy being his puppet, a pet to impress men who swear loyalty only to save their own pathetic skins? A sour taste filled his mouth at the thought. No. I can't say I did.
A slew of unidentifiable emotions flitted through his mind, borne through the mental link they shared, as if the presence was debating whether or not to reply to this sentiment. Finally, the low voice returned subdued, all mockery gone from its tone.
Where are you?
The courtyard. Hurry up, I'm freezing. He felt a small smile tug at his lips as mock annoyance flitted through the contact.
I'm already here, the voice retorted smugly.
Murtagh's eyes flew skyward, locking with the immense shadow descending from above. Rain fell in sheets from the slick scales, drenching him anew. Wings tucked close for stability in the intensifying storm, a gleaming pair of ivory claws shot outward, latching easily to the gnarled stone columns that framed the square. With a fluid, reptilian grace, the ruby dragon jumped easily to the ground. Wine red wings flared outward for balance, and its bloody scales ignited with crimson fire with each flash of lightening.
Saphira isn't half the dragon he is... Murtagh mused, admiring the fiery play of color and the strong, masculine presence of the dragon. Scarcely three months old, the nameless ruby hatchling was already capable of unleashing a terrifying torrent of crimson flame; he easily matched the sapphire dragoness in size and strength, despite her seniority. Huddling against the warm hide, Murtagh let out a relieved sigh as the dragon draped a protective wing, shielding them from the rain.
Thank you, he murmured, stuffing his frozen fingers into his armpits for warmth. He continued to shiver, however, the icy touch of the metal breastplate above his thin tunic leeching every ounce of warmth, and channeling cold rivulets of water down his skin. He rubbed his arms vigorously, but to no avail.
"Screw it," he muttered angrily. Reaching up, he tossed the cold silk cloak to the ground, before scrabbling at the thick leather fastenings. His fingers too numb and wet to find purchase, he swore explosively. Drawing a small blade from his belt, he expertly sliced through the thick hide; the breastplate clattered to the ground with a satisfying clang.
Smirking, Murtagh unhitched the ornamented belt from his waist, removing his sword from the bejeweled sheath, before letting sheath and belt fall to the ground. One by one, he methodically removed each silver ornament and each jeweled embellishment, until only a simple tunic, leggings, and boots remained.
Much better, the nameless dragon snorted approvingly.
Murtagh nodded absently, nudging the costly pile with his boot tip. He spit once, disgust contorting his features. What a waste.
With unspoken consent, they began a slow, leisurely shuffle towards the castle, Murtagh letting a hand rest on one broad scarlet shoulder amiably. He took one last, satisfied look at the drenched mound of frilly cloth and expensive jewels, before turning away smugly. Ducking into an enormous vaulted entryway, and through two thick mahogany doors, they disappeared into the castle's sleepy depths.
And then the courtyard was empty, only the rush of storming winds and the deluge of bitter rain filling the air. Rose petals, heavy with moisture, lingered in the square, drops of blood red staining the white stone...