Chapter seven: Holding A Grudge
The cold room of stone was empty, as if all forms of life feared entering there. This was not a throne room in a castle…it was not a castle at all. Rather, it was a fortress, built solely for protection against attacks. There was nothing aesthetically pleasing about the building. Square gray stones, worn and cracked from withstanding many battles, were lined with a brown moss and dust. There was only one strategically placed look-out tower, and a flat roof for the archers to fire from. Imposing walls of the same aged gray stone fenced in the fortress, creating a small area between them and the castle where a few hovels were occupied by soldiers and their poor families. The great wooden doors of the walls were always chained shut with thick chains of some metal never found Aboveground. The wood bore splinters of many battering rams, but they had never given in. Outside the walls, little clusters of homes were lit brightly against the approaching light. However, inside the throne room, it was that time between dusk and nighttime where everything appeared blue. To the right of the throne, an oak door was built into the wall in such a manner that it could be easily hidden by adjusting the nearby single tapestry, depicting a past war in graphic detail.
Without warning, this door was flung open, the hinges groaning against the force before giving in and allowing the door to meet the stone wall with a resounding smack that echoed through the great hall of the room. Dressed in the shadows, a man stalked through the door, heading in a straight line for his throne. Rather than sit, the man walked a circular path around the heavy stone chair, studying the floor as his thoughts roamed. Black hair was kept cut in a no-nonsense manner, ending just below his ears. Thick eyebrows of the same inky color knitted together in concentration, drawing down over midnight blue eyes. As the figure rounded the throne for the fifth time and came into the blue light that dared enter from the single window, his skin shone an unearthly white that was even more stark against his outfit of black; black breeches and boots, and a black shirt the fastened high on his neck, billowing out a little at the sleeves before fastening tightly at the wrists. His white hands were clasped behind his back, holding a rolled piece of parchment. He did not look up nor did he pause in his circular pacing as a servant entered to tell him dinner was prepared. With a short wave of dismissal, the young man was gone and the figure was alone again.
Finally stopping, Drathsar sat heavily in his throne, extending his legs on the floor in front of him and examining his boots with forced interest. "Two months," he finally spoke aloud, as if somebody was there to hear him, "It's been two months and I can think of nothing to help me against Oberon." Silent again, Drathsar turned his attention to the parchment still rolled in his hand. He knew a summons from the High Court was nothing to be taken lightly or ignored, but he needed time. If he could put off a reply long enough, then the Court wouldn't be able to touch him. The self-absorbed High Court wouldn't bother getting involved in an existing battle, but they would put an end to one that was only being planned. Still, he couldn't just declare war on Oberon; the Fairy King was too powerful and had too many allies. Drathsar needed a strategy…and he almost had one. "D'Vinnian," he spat the name out, remembering how he went, in confidence, to seek out the fallen Goblin Lord. "Living like a commoner! I offered him more money than he could ever have hoped for and he betrays me!" Drathsar fumed, his baritone voice booming loudly out into the hallways. Drathsar had always had aspirations of war; it was an honored tradition in his kingdom. Gaining land, subjects, and consequently money, through wars had been Drathsar's goal since his coronation. His father, although a very good soldier, had no gift for planning. Consequently, there were many retreats, many shameful homecomings. As a child, Drathsar remembered the parade of wounded and dead, and always his father's horse at the front, his father looking ragged and old, and always injured. The money spent on battles was sorely missed, and Drathsar, although royalty, grew up poor. He vowed never to make the mistakes his father had. It was what sent him to seek D'Vinnian. He knew that he would need help to attack Oberon's kingdom. He knew it was risky; but he also knew that it could bring him more land, money, power, and ultimately respect than he could ever dream of.
"Ruined! My greatest conquest ruined because of a soft spot! D'Vinnian is a soldier, he should not have any weakness!" Drathsar snarled. Though he still regarded the floor, Drathsar noticed a passing advisor look in at him worriedly before quickly moving on. Drathsar took a deep breath and reigned in his anger. After a moment, a smirk began to form on his face. "He should pay for his betrayal. It is only right. Let us see what other weaknesses our Goblin Lord will show." Feeling happier now that he had something to focus his anger on, Drathsar rose and headed to the dining hall for dinner with his most trusted advisors.
Quick AN:
Be honest….how many of you truly remembered he existed??