Prologue the first

Prologue the first

Picture a dirty-in-a-good-way room. The furniture is falling apart, not because of neglect but because of lack of money to buy new furniture. The walls and floor are made of rough, shoddily-made oak planks. In the centre of the room stands a table, one of which legs is positioned on one or two large books. On top of the table is a large book, rather like the ones helping the table to continue to stand. There is one exception. This book looks old and archaic: on its page is written a strange dead language that no one but the owner understands. Not that the book could be completely understood.

An old woman peers through misty spectacles at this antiquated writing, mixing absentmindedly a small glass vial. Her finger traces the words and finds the passage needed.

She looks up suddenly as though hearing a sound. Her eyes are sharp and gave the feeling of never being confused or muddled. They are a cold, harsh grey that yet held a type of kindness, although the kindness one often finds in gods.

The old woman speaks to thin air, her voice as coarse and jagged as her eyes. These are the words she spoke:

Men are fickle

Attack a girl

Men are cowards

Run from old women

Thus a curse is laid

On the greatest of men

There will be

The prince of this realm will know

What it feels like to be shunned

For what he looks like

A monster to some

The curse will be broken

When two men who are boys

Are felled by a lone tree

And the greatest of all men

Realises the greatest of all things

The lips of the girl

The ears and eyes of a cat

Seven maidens

All must come together

For the curse to be broken.

The old woman then brings a small bowl from behind the giant book and tips the contents of the vial inside. Taking a pinch of black cats' hair she drops them into the bowl. Swirling the mixture absentmindedly with a lone finger she then brings another smaller bowl from behind the book. This bowl is filled with pure white snow. It follows the way of the black cats' hair. Again she swirls. Lastly she takes a knife and cuts her hand along her lifeline, adding three drops of blood to the mixture. With another swirl the mixture is complete.

Again the old woman speaks:

Hair as black as ebony

Skin as white as snow

Three drops of blood

Will warn the mother

Of what is to come

The curse is complete

So mote it be

On the last word the contents of the bowl spin into a small cloud above the bowl. This cloud pauses for a moment, as if to get its bearings. Then it disappears into the west in the direction of the capital of Duffland, Infia.