larkthroat's king chronicles / a bit of au lore ;3

This is an archived version of FeralFront. While you can surf through all the content that was ever created on FeralFront, no new content can be created.
If you'd like some free FeralFront memorabilia to look back on fondly, see this thread from Dynamo (if this message is still here, we still have memorabilia): https://feralfront.com/thread/2669184-free-feralfront-memorabilia/.

    These are not canon to the universe of the traditional Clans, but are insights to Larkthroat's mindset or are hints to what may happen to him in future. Larkthroat does not dream these scenarios as cats are unaware of castles and the medieval kingdoms but can be seen as an alternate universe that correlates directly to Larkthroat. So technically these situations are happening but do not happen in the canon universe that we roleplay in. Currently, the name of the King is unknown.


    The chronicles will appear in a series of shorts rather than long oneshots. I feel that they suit the genre better that way:

    The post was edited 2 times, last by Loveday ().

    PROLOGUE; renewal


    Castle.

    Under siege.


    Let the peasants die. There is no sanctuary in the King’s castle walls. The doors continue to boom, cries erupt louder than the sound of cannon fire and the screams of scarlet drenched horses. Desperation fills the air like a toxic gas – the war continues. The King stands, eyes cold as he looks out below to the grandeur of bodies below. Ground soldiers are run over by the tall, armoured beasts and archers cling to their lives. The King closes his eyes, turns his head away from the people in need and returns to his throne. The foundations are shaking, crumbling from both the fire and the people. Any longer and the kingdom will fall and anyone standing inside the walls will be crushed and meet their demise.


    The pride of a king will be his doom. He will sit on his throne, refusing to move and be buried among the debris. And that will be the end of his kingdom, his unkindly rule. But alas the King stands, takes a guard to escort him through a secret passage and escapes. He leaves behind the people, the followers, the land. The weak are burned in the flames of retribution and only the embers of the worthy remain. There is no hope in the corrupted heart of a king and he escapes, unharmed, to begin again and lose again.


    The castle will become again.

    CHAPTER 1; the knight


    Cold. Barren. Endless.


    The land stretches far and the King only escapes with a few items to last him some days. His coat wraps around him, protecting him from the icy howls that burn his cheeks. His hand grips his crown tightly, the edges pierce into his skin. The King looks at the snow. Red, a trail of red. It is unforgiving and proud. It holds a dangerous vanity but the King continues to make his escape one step at a time. This landscape, this clearing, his own blood will be found. News has spread that the revolution was a success, the attacking party has won and have now made plans to establish a new kingdom free of corruption. All his followers, all the ones who had devoted themselves to the King are now all dead. Women and children, the crippled and the old. They have vanished and have been returned to the ground to begin again, become the fresh blood that will feed and rise a forest.


    “They called me Bruce. I am honoured to be of service, my Lord,” the Knight says, and he guards the King with his life. He takes him into a hideaway, hunts him dinner and serves him food. He is just like the rest, a perfect copy of the King’s loyal followers. Blind, deaf, hysterical. The Knight protects him with his life, talks to him to make sure the King never feels alone, and leaves his old life behind. The Knight used to have a family; a wife who brought him two children. They are no more.


    The King asks him, “How much longer until we reach a town?”


    “It will be difficult to predict but a week at best,” the Knight replies, “Many of the smaller towns have allied against you, but the towns near the outskirts should not be hostile. They do not recognise your face. But, my Lord, I suggest you leave your robes and crown. Take some of my clothes and you will not get caught.”


    “I do not need to do such a thing," the King assures, "I have left those towns unprotected, so should they attack me they will be slaughtered by your hand. You are my key to a new reign, a new Kingdom that will not fall.”

    The post was edited 1 time, last by Loveday ().

    CHAPTER 2; the hunter and the hunted
    ( trigger warning!! if you're easily affected by details of death and regret, don't read. i can't spoil the plot twist to everyone so if you want to read it but you're scared of what may be in it, feel free to ask someone else or pm me for details. )



    Plans always stay as just plans.


    Mother nature is unkind, and the winter is harsh and unforgiving. They have trekked the snowy fields for days on end, and boredom leaks into their veins and cold feet. Breaths materialise before their dull hues. The Knight raises his hand, urging the King to stay quiet and seek cover. The armoured man raises his bow, pressing the arrow across his frostbitten cheek. His ribs become still, the breathing has stopped. One, two. He must not act too rashly, he must not shoot too fast. One wrong move and their positions are revealed. Two mistakes and they’ve lost their chance.


    The Knight crouches slightly, the gleaming tip of his arrow moving with his gaze. He raises it slightly, the body of the arrow slips slightly past his frosty grip. Three, four. The King rests his back against the trunk of a tree, sighing at their stop. He is tired, hungry and thirsty. Three times the King has glanced at the Knight with a look of death, eyes daring the Knight to kill the creature. Four times the creature has passed them, as if it were either a sign or a guardian. The Knight has only two choices. Either he spares this pitiful beast or he feeds the King. What choice must he make? It pains his heart to think that both situations will kill him.


    Five, six. Five times the Knight has doubted himself, six times his arrow has quivered. Seven, eight. In seven seconds, it will be too late. In eight seconds, the beast would be spared and the King will unleash his rage.


    “Kill it.”


    The King has spoken. The arrow screams past the string and the Knight’s grip, cheeks hot and melting in the pain. The Knight feels himself shake, no longer feeling protected in his suit of steel as he hears what was first a yelp and then a cry. His steps turn into staggers, and he looks at the whimpering beast. A big dog, most likely belonging to a family, who had taken it upon itself to scavenge for food. He didn’t want to kill such a defenceless creature. The canine is still alive, trying to drag its body away and the Knight gives the dog a weak smile. He too is crying as he drags the sword he had once been proud to wield. A sob escapes his cracked lips, the blade in the air as he apologises to the gods, and lets the blade do the final swing.


    Silence.


    Tears.

    The post was edited 1 time, last by Loveday ().