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.
