Prologue

Tristan moved behind his desk, pulling up the end of his robe that was brushing the floor before taking a seat. His hands sifted through the rolls of parchment uninterestedly and nothing was able to get him into the mood.

He was glad to see Prontera bustling once more since the reconstructions. While he did, the foursome that had caused widespread holocaust still haunted him, sometimes even appearing in his nightmares. Well, that was rather long ago, but he had had nightmares nonetheless. Now it was a harmless looking crystal orb, a glittering, white orb that looked unlikely to bring anything unpleasant. Yet it did.

The interior of the orb had viewings. Viewings of a great many events, which none had made Tristan very happy. First he saw his very own city, Prontera, and the people going on about their lives just like the everyday scene, but that was where the innocence ended. The orb would darken into a deep purple as the viewings led him to a trail of blood leading him east, and then southwards to a sickening pool of human blood with distorted beings standing over it. Whatever he saw, he was not sure of what creatures they were. But none of his thoughts were comforting.

His servants had seen his paleness almost every morning, and even called for acolytes to tend to him. Before he could even utter his first word of refusal, the servants were already on the run to the church. When the acolytes came, usually in pairs, his repeated assurances fell deaf, and they forced checks on him, prescribing doses of red potions and yellow herbs.

Just as he expected, it was not the least useful. The nightmares returned every night, but none of the part he could decipher. Perhaps time will tell.

A peremptory knock on the door snapped him out of his reverie. An average man of muscles and grease slipped in and let the door swung close. The man wore a simple white shirt with black stains of grease, and the sleeves were pushed up all the way to the shoulders.

One glance at him would appraise him a blacksmith, but he was an erstwhile one. He was recognised as the warlord of Prontera, and his efforts to drive the foursome off were not overlooked. Smith hardly wanted anything more than round of beer drinking, but King Tristan the Third had made arrangements to put him as the chief of the blacksmith department in Prontera. And he had more business to run now, both politically and economically. Not to mention his own interests, the Fiendbanes, a shadowy band of deadly fighters that used to be lead by both him and his late warlord partner, Smith.

"You could do with some manners, warlord," King Tristan said even before Smith could settle down. "You forgot protocol, and I'm not transparent."

Smith took no umbrage at the sarcasm. Even if he did, there was no visible hint. He ensconced himself on the cushioned, high-backed chair across the king and drank from a random bottle of ale his hands could find. "You're lucky to have acolytes tend to you while you sit back to read papers. We, on the other hand, have business all over us, and we do it in the heat."

King Tristan looked ridiculed at every action he was seeing. This lad needs some flogging!

"What is your point, warlord?"

"My point is," Smith paused to take a brief swig of the bottle, sighing away as the ale burned his throat. Oddly enough he felt good. "Forget it, King, I have more important news to bring rather than idle talk. I've heard of your dreams, King. There might be a story behind it."

Eyes widening for a brief second, the king of Prontera allowed no delay. The suspense had been kept long enough, and finally there could be some answers today. Answers he knew he would dread, and worse still, bring him nothing but a lack of ample rest. "Speak."

"I could do with being a chief of the blacksmith department. I've more men available besides the Fiendbanes, and those that I deployed had returned to bring fresh news. These rolls of parchment you've been brooding over whether or not they are reliable," Smith said as he encompassed the documents on the desk with a wave of his hand. "I've found the truth."

"Like what you spoke of your dreams to me, the bearings led me to Izlude. Surely enough my men reported unrest and civil war. The people are divided between the defenders and that damned Cranius's minions, and guess what? Most of them do be swordsmen and knights, as I had suspected."

The king knuckled his bushy white beard uneasily. Trains of thought ran through his head like a barrage of arrows, but he could not quite comprehend it all. All the regal and authority was gone, all but displaced by confusion. He looked at Smith and spoke with a dire tone. "Civil war? What could be the impetus to that damned lord's insanity? Things do look different from the way I see it."

"Different as it be, I have no clue just yet. We would have to wait," Smith replied plainly. Finally setting down the bottle of ale, he waited for the king's next sentence, but a knock on the door derailed any further discussions they had hoped to carry out.

A young, lean but tall man strode into the chamber, springing the word 'confident' into their mind. The man wore a thin blue bandanna around his forehead, and bit a romantic leaf at the corner of his mouth. Atop his head was a brown hat with curved, wide rims called a Sweet Gent. Strapped to his back was a guitar made of fine, dark oak. His type of elegance might very well pin-point him a philander.

"Who might be this lad in some weird mix and match? Is that the latest fad? Hah!" Smith mocked openly.

The king leaned forward suddenly, as if remembering something that slipped off his mind. "Oh yes, Smith, let me introduce you your new warlord partner. His name is Jamie Kohlan. And –"

"And ladies call me JK," the man intercepted with a tinge of pride. A little too obvious, it seemed.

Smith stared at the king with mouth agape, then looked at Jamie. Or rather, JK. "Did I hear wrong? Even without Larzen I could do things the same, let alone some skinny gigolo who tries to make a stupid fashion statement and mess my life."

It was Jamie's turn to stare at the warlord. "Excuse me? I am nothing of what you say that I am, but I tell you now I am a bard! A fine, if not better looking, bard. I'm not sure about you but you look as green as a Poporing because I have my ways with girls and no one bothers to make a second glance at you?" With that said the bard let out a long laugh that had him choking with tears. He still had not realised that it was a big mistake. Jamie felt a weight lifted off his back and before he could even twist his head around to look –SMASH!

A splintered guitar sat atop the bard's head, bits and pieces of wood snowing onto the floor. After what seemed like one long hour, the chair toppled backwards with Jamie crashing onto the exquisitely matted floor, eyes closed.

King Tristan stood behind his desk with the same look that Smith had a while ago. Things had certainly gone awry; first the nightmares, now a failed intended partnership. Smith ignored his "partner" and faced the king. He was none too happy. "What are you thinking? That he could very well become the second Smith? He's six feet under, king, and it had not been very long since."

Absent-mindedly snatching the bottle of ale he had been drinking, he turned to leave, a boot stepping the bard on the chest as he did.