Chapter 1: An Irish-land Graveyard
"Macbeth's business is complete, with him admitting defeat. Now sisters, where shall we meet? I hope an area no person wants to greet." The first witch questioned the others, whilst standing on a dry mound.
"What about Ireland? I know an area surprisingly bland!" claimed the second, with tangled hair flying through the rotting winds.
"Yes... I visualise a person there. A man who is a rightful heir." stated the third, hunched over and gathering the materials grown about her. Fog began to shroud the three weïrd sisters, preparing to deliver them to the land promised by the youngest, the second devil.
This land was a flat, open field and was left barren after the owners left hastily, in fear of being raided by the Scottish Resistance. Also after the owners evacuated, the existence of long, lifeless grass and a grey, ill sky became true to this landscape of what was once beauty. Long months past and attacked the land, causing beams of old wood to rise and ascend; such beams of this kind would break upon even the slightest touch across its shattered bark, making it useless for construction. With the ill sky, came rain of light showers, only to hinder the land from its ability to withstand many mortals' weight. As there was nothing able to live on such drenched soil, there was nothing much to hear except your movement.
"I hear a mortal approaching, sisters!" quietly screamed the third, "The unfortunate soul travelled over rivers!" The man in question was Donalbain, brother to the holy king Malcom. "Why must I stumble upon a desperate-for-help plain?" complained the exasperated man, before coming into contact with the three devils, "Who might want to stand within such a field as this... What do I see? Three hags... This is a sign of bad luck! I'd best take a different journey, a new path to Scotland is what would be advised by any mortal, even fools!"
Before he could turn about, the first sister of the three focused on the male figure's location and called "Donalbain, brother to the throne-holder, you shall become the king without being years older!"
"Why do you claim such fiction?" replied Donalbain, hastily, cursed by the woman's words.
"What we see is what will be."
"Okay. Speak of how this will become true."
"We cannot state, but people will hate."
"Hate what? Speak clearly or blades of iron would curse your ridged flesh!" Donalbain, with a movement of his chain-coated arm, grabbed hold of the hilt of a sword, sheathed in leather and silver.
"A murder would take place, if you decide to race."
Soon after, the creatures vanished, coated in a mist of crimson. The "soon-to-be-king" unsheathed his iron longsword and attempted to slash down the demons the cloud of blood. He was too slow. Realising his attack was futile, he re-sheathed the blade and stood in the gloomy landscape. He was again alone. "A murder?" Donalbain questioned within his faithful skull, before the word fully sank in, "A murder! Who could the target be? I or my brother? I must inform! Wait... Slowly... The hags stated if I race, blood will be spilt. Oh my dear lord, ensure my king receives no wounds across his young body. Amen." blood rushed across his structure within, pouring into every vein to his heart, like rivers to the sea. Donalbain had little time. He must be at Scotland to inform about his confrontation with the devils.