thelegacyofgreyleaf

[thelegacyofgreyleaf]

I’d love to hear your thoughts on “The Legacy of Greyleaf: Stories from Kyoguild!”

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[thelegacyofgreyleaf]

Stories from Kyoguild #4

The Catalyst of War

By Eveline Brooks

***

The ocean blue cloak bellows in the wind as the gilded lining of his sky blue pauldrons shine with sunlight. Corvex Windhelm stands on scattered rocks that had fallen off nearby debris onto the stone balcony floor. His cloak, ripped and torn in some places. His pauldrons, scuffed and dented. The crimson bastard sword that was in his hand, now slipped and crashed into the ground. His golden hair flowing around his narrow blue eyes and dark tan complexion, staring out as soldiers equipped with steel armor, begin to rush out of the castle gates which stand beneath the human Prince’s heel. The Heir of Belden falls to his knees, his roar echoes out of his throat and into the blue atmosphere above. He believes he doesn’t deserve the hand he was dealt. But, poor Corvex knows too well that it’s in the past and he will never be able to earn the throne as according to the ritualistic tradition of his country; nor will he ever be able to bring back his father.

*Earlier That Day*

Corvex and his father, Marlowe Windhelm; The King of Belden, stand toe-to-toe in a coliseum filled to the brim with the residents of the country. The crowd roars around them.

“Show me what you got, Corvex. You’re the star of this festival you know.” Marlowe exclaims cockily.

Corvex runs and slashes forward with a silver and black short sword accompanied by a blue shield. “I’ll beat you this year, father!”

Marlowe side-steps out of the way of the first slash by Corvex. The crowd gasps. Marlowe raises his crimson bastard sword and shoves his opponent’s blade away. The King of Belden spins around as his blue cloak flows elegantly behind him. “Your move.”

Corvex jumps in the air, slamming the tip of his blade into the ground. After flipping over the sword like a pole vault, the young prince slashes downward into his father. Once again, this assault is blocked by Marlowe.

The King pushes his sword upward and checks his shoulder forward, sending his son flying backwards and into the sandy terrain of the battlefield. Corvex’s shield flies off and skips across the sand. The crowd gasps again, stunned by the show of skillful perfection. The young Prince pushes himself up onto his feet slowly, but once he is steady; his sword is jolted in front of him in a blocking stance. His right arm, fist clenched around his sword, trembles from the pressure of the ecstatic crowd. The Prince twists his left foot in the sand and pivots his weight onto it. Now that Corvex is standing and ready, Marlowe dashes forward. The crowd cheers, they watch intently as King Windhelm impacts Corvex with the broadside of the crimson blade. Corvex attempts to block the attack, their blades connecting, but Corvex is knocked down again. Upon crashing to the ground Corvex’s left pauldron smacks against a rock. Marlowe approaches him slowly, raising the charred and ancient bloodsword to his throat.

“Maybe next year, you’ll be able to beat me and take the throne.” The old man says gently. “You still have work to do, and that’s okay. I was in your shoes once, my son. It took me years to defeat my father at the Tournament of the Crown.” Marlowe lowers his sword and reaches out his hand to help up his son.

Corvex grabs his father’s hand and stands up. The crowd cheers as the prince accepts defeat this year. He looks hopeful, with a half smile across his face. His hair was drenched with sweat.

The king grabs his son’s wrist and holds it in the air. The crowd thunderously erupts in sound. All the various sounds slowly come together to chant, “To-Be King, To-Be King, To-Be King!!”

Marlowe turns to Corvex and releases him, stating; “You’ll be king, one day, son.” The king then turns to address the crowd. He grabs his own throat lightly as his fingertips glow a very faint green. His voice booms from his throat, “LET THE SIX-SUMMER FESTIVAL BEGIN! ENJOY YOURSELVES EVERYONE!” Corvex and Marlowe smile and wave at the crowd as they slowly walk across the arena, the crowd still erupting until they finally reach the rising metal gate door. The two turn and do a final bow and wave to the crowd. Corvex blows to the crowd while his eyes are focused on one woman dressed in blue. As the two slowly disappear into the corridor from the crowd’s gaze, the applause slowly fades as the crowd begins to gather their things and leave the stadium.

“Was that kiss for the crowd, or someone in particular?” Marlowe asks softly as they walk through the corridor.

“Both. I know that the audience loves me and I love them every year. And, it was for a girl. I have been seeing her every now and again the past several weeks. We like to hop the local taverns and inns for drinks. We visit a different one every week.” Corvex replies.

“You make me more proud to be your father, than I am proud to be the king of this country. Let it be known.” Marlowe responds, placing his hand on Corvex’s back.

As Marlowe and his heir approach the end of the corridor. The wooden exit door is opened by a dark-skinned human woman with short hair on top and shaved on the sides of her head. Marlowe speaks first; “Ah, Miss Lukholli. Nice to see you!”

“The pleasure is all mine, my lords.” She lightly bows to the both of them before continuing. “I thought I’d accompany you back to your palace. The night is young. There are many events to get to. The Tournament of the Crown is only the opening ceremony to the Six-Summer Festival, you know?”

Marlowe chuckles. “I know, Laika. This festival is my favorite time of year. It honors my great grandfather’s sacrifice to restore the cycle of the seasons after the six-year long summer. He was the only human capable of slaying a dragon. And we all are grateful for our lives and our homes today because of him.”

Laika chuckles and pulls Marlowe along. “His legacy’s story never loses its magic being spoken by you, King Windhelm.”

Marlowe responds softly, “The truth is, I am envious. I will never be remembered like him. My prime is long over.” He turns to Corvex before being led out of the arena by his noble bodyguard. “You taking the throne is long overdue my son. I know you will beat me next year.” The two leave and the door slams behind them. Leaving Corvex in a dark hallway.

“Quite the show, I’m impressed.” An ominous voice states from the darkness as Corvex only can see two glowing yellow eyes.

Corvex grunts, “Vyncint? What brings you to this side of Quinloch?”

“To warn you. Kyoga has sent an assassin to kill two targets during the festival. Those being: Laika Lukholli, and your father, King Marlowe Windhelm.” The vampire informs the prince.

Corvex starts a little, surprised. “I don’t believe you. What makes you think you can waltz into the Six-Summer Festival and make such heinous claims?”

Vyncint replies slowly to make his words more clear, “I would not be here to warn you if I did not believe it to be true. Marie was the one who actually convinced me to try and help out, and this is the most I will be doing. Had she not been so concerned for you in particular, Corvex, I wouldn’t be here. Make your next few moves very wisely Prince, unless you plan on becoming King faster than expected. Don’t make this energy I put in to get out here go to waste. And certainly, protect the woman you cherish oh so dearly. Enjoy the ‘festivities’, Corvex Windhelm.” He walks away, his footsteps fading into the black void that surrounds Corvex.

“Marie, like Marie Fuchs?” Corvex asks the darkness. “What does she have to do with this? Shouldn’t she be far outside of Quinloch by now?”

“A Falcon told her.” Vyncint replies finally.

“A Falcon?” Corvex asks himself quietly. He then opens the door his father just went through, and exits into a bustling festival with various vendors and aromas erupting in his face.

Everything from various sweets and meat stands to clothing and weapon vendors. Thousands of citizens swarm the plaza as Corvex looks out down the street leading away from the arena. One in particular spots the prince. She’s blonde with green eyes, her two tone blue dress flows down around and behind her legs as she runs at him. “Corvex! You did so amazing!! We need to go drink to celebrate, if not for another year of your father’s rule; but for that sick move!!” She grabs him with a hug and the two kiss.

“Thank you. You flatter me, Norma.” He replies, saddened.

“There is always next year! That sword vault was truly amazing! Who taught you to do that?” She asks energetically.

He smiles. “I taught myself it. I noticed it was possible by accident while I was helping out at the bank fire earlier this week. Come to think of it, they never caught the perp.” He abruptly stops. The air around him roared with the sounds of a busy crowd but the silence between him and Miss Dean was sharp and intense. “I have to go.” Corvex grabs her and kisses her cheek in return. “Don’t let any vampires suck that precious life out of you darling.” He sprints off and to the castle, shoving his way through the crowd. Guards notice and run after him, knowing there must be something to cause Corvex to act in such a way. Upon reaching the Palace of Wind-Cross. Corvex slams open the front door, halting the room full of chatter within the main chamber. Marlowe stands up and looks at his son from across the room.

His voice loudly erupts, “What is the meaning of you barging in like this, Corvex? Why aren’t you down in the town enjoying the festivities?”

Frantic whispering begins to crescendo out of the crowd.

He begins to start, almost cutting off his father. “Father, there is an assassin out for you, hiding within the crowd.”

The crowd gasps. Distressed chatter begins erupting loudly.

Marlowe speaks, “Everybody. OUT!” The gathering quiets down and begins to take their drinks and leave the castle at the king’s command. “Corvex. I know your emotions are high from your loss today but please, no need to spread such rumors during the festival.” He laughs. “Why would you want to miss the festival anyway? Do you want a drink, my son?”

“I should be asking how you can party and drink when the largest bank in our city was burned to the ground and the arsonist wasn’t caught! And now I’m being told you’re under threat by a credible source.” Corvex replies.

The room is empty now, aside from Corvex and Marlowe

“I believe you.” Marlowe responds. Corvex begins to slow down as he approaches his father’s throne.

Marlowe stomps towards Corvex. “This information better have a reliable source.”

Corvex nods, “I wouldn’t be acting like this if I didn’t trust it. It was told to me by Vynci~..”

Marlowe snaps,“Don’t you mutter any more of that name. I do not want to hear the vampiric king’s name in my chamber.” He sighs. “Then we really would be in trouble. Why would you ever trust him?”

A shadow passes from behind one guard to another. Corvex notices, his eye following it intently. He shouts out. “Over there!! Father, look out!” As Corvex begins to look back at his father, he notices red slimy tendrils that have his father wrapped from the ankles, up to his wrists, and up to his neck and covering his mouth.

The guards do not move. They stand still, like mannequins. The distressed prince charges towards his father. “Why are you all just standing there like that?! Your king is in peril! Attack her!” Corvex yells, but his message is received by only silence.

Corvex, running down this long throne room to his father, having time to think while running; he thinks about how to defeat the assailant. As he begins to flip through thought and the urge to ignore his father to attack the assailant. Not only to prove himself to his father, but to stop the attack directly by acting first.

“I said attack damnit!!” Corvex yells more. As he shouts and commands his team, the ground around his feet begins to spark in a sort of mint green color.

“They won’t listen to you.” A sadistic feminine voice echoes out from what seems to be the walls. “Just like you won’t ever rule over them. You will be left abandoned and in pieces emotionally, Corvex! Just look at your father. With every pulse of my bloodtrails, he will be closer and closer to death.”

The hooded figure jumps off one guard behind Marlowe and throws her daggers into the air above her, they stick into the ceiling and two more blood-trails appear between them and the back of her hands. Now that she is airborne, her trails visibly go from guard to guard until they reach Marlowe in the center where they rise up to her. The blood hardens and forms a giant axe in her hands. Roughly three-times the size of your ordinary giant battle axe. Out of her daggers that rest on her hips, shoot two long red tendrils of blood. They attach to the ground below. As the original trails of blood keep making the axe grow and grow, Corvex begins to dash towards her, running past his trapped father. Marlowe bites the tendril that is covering his mouth and spits it to the side. This gives him enough wiggle room to roll out of the blood vines. He grabs his sword and rushes up to his feet in a blocking stance. In one swift motion, the trails of blood rising from the surrounding crowd begin to fade off. Her daggers detach from the ceiling. She begins to plummet to the ground with a powerful wind up of the axe.

Before she swings it down, she exclaims “This is where you die..!” As it swung down, it leaves a wet red trail behind it in the air. The axe slams against Marlowe’s sword, pushing his heels scraping back on the stone ground.

“You’re faster than I expected.” She says, kicking down on her axe. Marlowe holds strong, the blades clashing and causing red sparks to fill the air around them.

“This isn’t my first fight, Aeyarus. Your king will pay for what he has sent you to do.” Marlowe responds as Corvex runs in and does an upward slash at the hooded figure. As he does, she kicks the backend of the hilt of her axe, making it skim across the blade of Marlowe’s sword and hitting Corvex with the broadside of the axe. It knocks him back and away a few feet. The axe dissipates and the blood that made it up, now swirls around her. She backflips away and forms a javelin with her dagger as the tip. Marlowe lunges at her bringing his sword down to the ground, missing her and cracking the stone floor upon impact. The woman throws her javelin and it nails him right in the shoulder.

“This isn’t mine either, human!!” The trail of blood from the knife extends to Jane’s hand and she pulls with all her might. “Get over here and bleed!” Marlowe is pulled to the attacker. With the tug, he loses grip of his sword and falls onto his knees. Corvex pulls himself onto his feet and tries to catch up with his father. But he watches as the hooded figure jumps in the air, stabbing him in the chest and pushing the both of them to the ground. She retracts her knife from a now still, Marlowe Windhelm.

Corvex charges to his father’s body. It’s already too late, Marlowe Windhelm is dead.

“You…. you monster.” Corvex says softly.

“What was that, I’m sorry. I can’t hear you.” The assailant replies cockily. She places her hand to her ear and leans in Corvex’s direction with a huge smile across her face, yet her eyes remain cold and emotionless.

His eyes begin to glow a very dark green as he raises to his feet. “You will PAY for the pain you have just caused not only me. But this entire damn country.” Corvex grabs his father’s sword, as he does; the sword begins to spark with a greenish color, and he charges at the woman responsible. He slashes twice at her, and she parries the two strikes back with her dual daggers and she tries to stab him. She misses and hits his cloak. She pulls back, slicing down his blue cape.

“I hope you know, Corvex. It’s your turn now. What weapon shall I form from your father’s blood?” The woman says while Marlowe begins to drain of blood, streaming out the front of his chest and through a trail in the air and directly to the assailant.

Corvex for the first time, steadies himself in his father’s fighting stance. He feels like it came too soon, that he isn’t worthy. He wasn’t going to let her know that he was weak at this moment, he couldn't let her at any cost. He speaks confidently, “I must do this, to protect my country. You have gone too far. You have ruined our festival. You have killed my father. You’re right, it is my turn.” Corvex runs up with the ground still cracking and glowing a soft green, and slams his sword into her, sending her flying into the back wall and ripping her cloak off. As she slams into the wall, she loses grip on her daggers and they scatter away from her. Corvex is able to make out the details of her outfit as she flips and recovers her stance. She is a medium height elf woman and is wearing a black bandanna, dark purple leather armor, a black scarf with a single gold streak, and thigh high boots. She has two more daggers stashed within her boots, which she draws.

“For the record. My name is Jane. Let it haunt you, Prince. Or should I say King now??!” She laughs intensely. Corvex charges forward, slamming his family’s sword into her body. She flies back more and her back slams against the wall once more. He takes two steps back and pivots onto his heel. A red flame begins to burst, then explodes with light on his blade.

“Well, Jane. You brought this upon yourself!” He swings his ignited sword upward, lightly tearing a part of Jane’s scarf. She is sent upward and out of a large stained glass window. The glass cracks and splinters as her body impacts it. As she breaks through the window, the fire of Corvex’s blade begins to erupt as she is then surrounded by a cloud of broken glass reflecting the surrounding vibrant firelight. She falls to the balcony below. He sighs, “You walked into the hornet’s nest and killed the king. The fate you are owed now, is your own doing. And, I will be the hand of vengeance.” Corvex steps over the jagged stained glass sticking out of the lower window frame. The balcony has six slender pillars that protrude out of the ground. Four guard bodies are on the ground, and Jane is nowhere to be seen. “Dammit! She’s quick.” Corvex runs to the edge of the balcony, placing his hands on the ledge. He looks down at the festival, the crowd from the castle now mixed in with the bigger crowd. “Nation, your king… is dead.” A chorus of gasps and angry shouts erupt from the gathering of people below.

Suddenly, Corvex hears the snapping of a rope. As he turns to face the origin of the sound when he’s met with the sight of Jane flying towards him, having shot herself with a slingshot of blood tendrils. As the tension is released, the two pillars fall and crumble down. She slashes Corvex, but her blade bounces off his pauldron. She jumps off his shoulder and lands a few feet away and places her hand to her ear. “Do you hear that, Corvex? My ‘doing’ as you said. It is in fact my symphony of pain!” Corvex pulls his sword back and charges forward. As he reaches Jane, he begins to swing. But, as he does; she jumps and lands her feet on the blade. She leaps again off it, as Corvex completes his swing and readies a block. She throws her daggers down at him, both are reflected by his guard. As he pulls the massive sword out of his view and lowers his guard, she is running to the ledge. She climbs up onto the ledge and crouches down, turning back to Corvex. “My mission is complete, but I’m sure that I will see you again. It is only natural that you would intend to hunt me down.” Jane leaps off the balcony and uses her blood tendril to zip to a building below.

The ocean blue cloak bellows in the wind as the gilded lining of his sky blue pauldrons shine with sunlight. Corvex Windhelm stands on scattered rocks that had fallen off nearby debris onto the stone balcony floor. His cloak, ripped and torn in some places. His pauldrons, scuffed and dented. The crimson bastard sword that was in his hand, now slipped and crashed into the ground. His golden hair flowing around his narrow blue eyes and dark tan complexion, staring out as soldiers equipped with steel armor, begin to rush out of the castle gates and into the scattering and panicking crowd below. The Heir of Belden falls to his knees, his roar echoes out of his throat and into the blue atmosphere above. He believes he doesn’t deserve the hand he was dealt. But, poor Corvex knows too well that he must stop at nothing to hunt down the woman responsible for killing his father.

[thelegacyofgreyleaf]

“In the tapestry of Kyoguild’s history, I am but a thread weaving the legacy of our pure elven culture.”

King Kyoga Greyleaf, inheriting his late father's vision for Kyoguild at 18, transformed the realm into a unified elven nation by eliminating the Druid and Vampiric settlements, passionately pursuing a pure elven-culture identity. Tragedy struck at 38 when his daughter, Nalaea, learned of Kyoga's past actions, leading to her untimely demise. This loss fractured Kyoga's psyche, fueling an obsession with raising successors Tanora and Lenora in his image. Tanora, deemed "good," adhered to his ideals, while Lenora, considered "bad," focused on machines over magic. As political tensions escalated, an upcoming war against Belden loomed, testing Kyoga's friendships and forcing him to reconcile loyalty with ruthless pragmatism.

Artist: Hanako Watanabe

[thelegacyofgreyleaf]

Stories from Kyoguild #3

The Owl That Flew In

Eveline Brooks

***

Fire… burning everything that surrounds the senses of a young elven girl. She feels the cold breath of fear on the back of her neck. Picking herself up off the ground, she begins to sprint through the crumbling spires that currently are being engulfed by the raging inferno. Not to lose her path, but to avoid running in circles in the maze of fire; she keeps making random turns and keeping track of it in her head.

Left.

Right.

Right.

Left.

Left.

Right.

Now, ahead of her in a clearing. An orcish figure kneels on the ground, his heavy mace at his side and what’s left of his robes, drenched in blood and covered in ash. A cloaked figure approaches the fallen half-orc, plunging a dagger into his back. On the cloak, the girl notices her own family crest and can’t help but shout, confused and terrified:

“FATHER??!!!!”

***

“Wake up, your highness! It’s okay. It’s just a bad dream.” A motherly voice says as the young elven girl wakes up. The room is warm and comfortable from the heAs she sits up, she brushes her ivory bangs out of her face. Her hair is short and messy from the night of sleep prior, She is panicked, but slowly realizing it was just a nightmare. The girl’s feet fall to the floor and she looks up at the woman who stands before her.

She is a shorter fox-kin woman wearing a red dress, covered by a white apron that is belted to the dress. In her hand, a broom that she has resting on the floor with her holding the handle gently. Her hair wavy and red like a violent ocean of fire, yet her demeanor reflects the opposite of violence. Her scarlet eyes say she has been through a lot, yet full of love and care nonetheless.

“Miss Fuchs..?” Nalaea questions softly, still waking up.

“Yes, Heiress. I heard screaming while I was sweeping the corridor, so I used my skeleton key to check in on you. I was told it was for emergencies only, and I definitely qualify the King’s daughter screaming as such. Are you okay?” Roter asks concerningly.

“Do you know if my father had anything to do with the burning of a village?” Nalaea asks.

“I… uh… um.” Roter sputters, shocked by the question.

“Never mind. It’s probably just a bad dream, like you said.” Nalaea responds with a yawn close behind.

“Anyways, now that you’re up. Would you like to come with me? I was just about to go and check on the rest of the maidstaff in the kitchen. It’s almost breakfast after all?” Roter asks confidently, with a smile.

“I’d love to see everyone! It’s been too long. I remember when you all taught me how to fry eggs.” Nalaea says with excitement.

“You know we got punished for teaching you a “servant’s job,” right?” Roter winces, rubbing the back of her neck.

“What do you mean? Cooking isn’t a servant’s job, it’s a genuine life skill that I might need to use someday. Which guard did it? I’ll have them fi~.”

“I can’t risk losing my job. I can’t say. I’m sorry Nalaea.” The fox interrupts.

“Roter, why do you want me in the kitchen?” Nalaea says firmly.

Miss Fuchs looks around, “I need to tell you something regarding your nightmare.” She says. “And I don’t feel safe doing it here.”

As Roter finishes her thought; a barn owl, brown and white in color, flies into the room through an open window. Upon landing softly on a rafter, it grips its talons and stares down at Nalaea. Roter swings her broom up at it.

“Get out! I said, Get! You nosy owl!” Roter shouts as the owl flees the mighty broom. Roter then mutters to herself. “There’s been a lot more birds flying into the castle than usual lately.”

While she is occupied with the owl, Nalaea walks out of the room. Entering the long corridor which seems to stretch forever, the cool air of the hall nips Nalaea’s senses. Just outside of the room, there sits a cart of cleaning supplies. As she steps down the calm and empty passage of Castle Greyleaf, she begins to hear a voice from within her head. The voice is unfamiliar to Nalaea which she finds as strange, having that she’s lived here and been around everyone who works or lives in this castle her whole life.

“Great work, Yavari! Your training is coming along well.” A deep orcish voice echoes in her head.Nalaea winces, the words sting her brain like a sharp migraine but is gone as fast as it came.

Continuing down the corridor, Nalaea passes doors that line the corridor evenly after every third pillar on her right side. On her left, tall stained glass windows that line the hallway.

Red.

Blue.

Red.

Blue.

A soldier of the castle, in full armor, walks past Nalaea.

“Good morning, your highness.” The soldier says with a chipper attitude, as he continues down the hall.

Red.

Blue.

Red.

Blue.

The next opening past the blue stained glass window, is a door. She grabs the handle, pushing it open.

“Hit the road, boy. You’ve done enough damage to not only my students, but to this monastery.” The orcish voice echoes more, and again; Nalaea winces. She walks out of the door and onto a balcony, the sky is a faded blue. The clouds softly release their rain to the ground below. Nalaea leans over the stone railing at the edge of the balcony, her hair slowly fading warmer as the rain covers each part of her short hair. Nalaea’s head is getting louder and sharper. While she is surrounded by a cold rain, she can only feel the blazing inferno from her dream.

“Raeburn, over here!” The orcish voice exclaims.

“The children. The fire. It was too much. It was too far late by the time we arrived.” A young woman says.

As Yavari’s cries enter Nalaea’s mind. Nalaea herself cannot hold back the tears anymore. The emotional weight of that night was too much for the Princess of Kyoguild to handle. She turns around to face the door that she had left open, and sits on the wet ground. Her dress, now soaked and borderline ruined. As Nalaea cried, so did Yavari.

Nalaea looks up at the roof of the castle, where the barn owl sits and watches.

“What could I have possibly done?” Nalaea states out loud as the words echo in her mind from the young tiefling.

“Nothing. You weren’t born yet when it happened.” Roter says, now standing in the doorway.

“It wasn’t a village, it was the last druid monastery.” Nalaea says.

“I.. uh.” Roter starts before the Princess interrupts.

“Don’t you lie to me too. You and Father are the two I trusted most. I never knew my mother, so you’re the best I had. You can’t just lie your way out of this the way my father has for years. He’s told me since I was a child that the vampire king caused it. What else has he lied about. What else have you lied about, Roter?”

“Nothing! All I wanted to do was to help you.” The fox says.

“I have been kept here, in basically isolation, to train and learn about the so-called ‘amazing’ and ‘legendary’ spells my father has learned before me. I have been told countless times that the throne given to me as my birthright is built on a legacy of honor, a legacy of nobility, and a legacy of trust. All three of those, I see now as lies. I don’t trust you. I don’t think I ever will be able to again. I’m sorry, Roter.” Nalaea softens her voice, starting off sounding loud and almost demanding; she now speaks soft.

“Where would you go if not here? This is peak Werewolf season. You might not last out there.” Roter asks.

Nalaea stands up on the railing, turning to look at Roter.

“Goodbye, Miss Fuchs.” She says as she leans backward and falls off of the railing. Roter dashes to where Nalaea was just sitting, trying to look over and see any sign that she is alive. Roter begins to cry uncontrollably, she punches the stone railing until her knuckles begin to bleed. The moment her blood touches the standing water from the rain. The barn owl drops to the ground behind the fox. It grows and shapes itself into the body of a large elvish man wearing red royal garments with belts and buckles. He approaches Roter, placing a hand on her shoulder and simply saying, “There is nothing you could have done, I’ve been expecting this to happen to her for some time now. She’s gone Roter. Do not dwell feel guilty over this. This is not your fault. It’s her own. This is no more your fault than when those vampires killed your mother.” The elf king says. As the fox girl stops herself from sobbing; her sadness turns to anger. she says.

“I will finish my tasks today and all the pre-work for tomorrow. But tonight will be my last night working for you. After this, I just want to be with my sister.” Roter claims.

“That’s fine. Thank you for the twenty years of work. As of tonight, you will be formally dismissed. If you werent like family, you wouldn’t be let off as easy.” claims the Elf King.

Roter nods and heads inside as King Kyoga walks to the edge and looks over at the forest below.

[thelegacyofgreyleaf]

This one was really fun to write and develop. When writing my bigger project “The Legacy of Greyleaf” I needed a definitive reason that Kyoga is such an evil king. That is where this short story was born.

Stories from Kyoguild #1

The Falcon Takes Flight

By Eveline Brooks

***

As the young tiefling girl comes to, all she can hear is the ringing in her ear from the initial explosion, the cracking and popping of the engulfing flame around her. A glowing red light is all she can see as what was once her home is suddenly falling to ruin around her. The elegant spires and structures of this methodically constructed monastery, which once would bustle with life of all shapes and sizes, is fracturing as the wood that makes up the structures splinters and pops in the inferno.

Yavari looks around at her surroundings. Dazed, she is able to make out the blue glow of the gem at the end of her staff. Being on the ground, she crawls through the rubble and debris to her staff. Upon grabbing it, the gemstone projects three glowing orbs that emit a golden aura. A shadow can be seen, they are tall, muscular, and massive. A boar-kin maybe? No. A half-orc.

The orcish figure exclaims, “Raeburn! Over here!” Yavari dashes out of the collapsing building as it comes crashing down. Upon stepping out of the blaze, she falls to her knees. Before her body is pulled to the ground by gravity’s magnetic force, she is grabbed by her shoulders and is pulled to her feet.

“What were you thinking? You could have been killed.” He says.

“My apologies, Archdruid Torrig.” She mutters barely. “The children. The fire. It was too much. It was too far late by the time we arrived.” Yavari releases a sigh as she falls unconscious.

Torrig looks up, with his student cradled in his arms, to watch the building crumble. As he gazes at the support beams, he thinks of the times his tutor would bring him to this temple to practice druidcraft and the Druidic language. The walls and books marked only by Druidic sigils. Each one, more unique and intricate than the last. They all give off a powerful, mystical feeling that only those who draw power from nature itself can understand. “Who could do such a thing?” He says, and as Torrig reminisces on the times of old, lightning strikes.

As the flash fades quickly out of the darkened night sky which is lit by the surrounding flames. An arrow pierces the back of Torrig. He lets out a mighty roar through his jagged asymmetrical tusks. His roar booms throughout the monastery, even after he’s stopped it continues to echo off the enflamed walls.

Torrig falls to his knees as a hooded figure, slim and tall, steps closer and closer to his back. With one quick motion and a second strike of lightning, the assailant plunges a jagged dagger into the back of the Archdruid.

Once again, the mighty half-orc lets out a roar that echoes the surrounding forest. Now his thoughts go from his childhood and upbringing, to his son. Now realizing that if he were to give up, he would lose everything. He wouldn’t be able to raise his son.

Torrig picks up his mace and swings it faster than any creature should be allowed to swing a weapon of such mass. The hooded assailant’s legs get shot out from underneath them. Yavari’s unconscious body falls out of his arms and naturally rolls into a tall bed of flowers. The patch of flowers are tall enough to completely engulf her.

The assailant mutters, “so long” As a wave of purple and gold energy blast is released from his hand, sending Torrig flying into the side of the building. The assailant stands up and looks around. “Raeburn!” He draws a blood red sword. The blade, slightly curved back to slice through it’s prey. The sword emits a dark mystical aura, one that could never be natural. “Ya-vaa-riii!” He calls out. “Damn, she got away. Who knows, maybe the inferno consumed her.” As he begins to walk away, Yavari regains consciousness.

Before getting out of the flowers, Young Raeburn simply asks one word: “Torrig?”

The hooded figure turns around with haste, a magical wind lifts him by the cloak and drops him on the bed of flowers. He raises his cursed blade and slashes through the flowers. As the flowers begin to rapidly decay and fall, there is no sign of Yavari. The only living being left is a single Falcon flying away.

The Falcon flies enough away to land on a tree, she turns back into herself. And there she is, Young Yavari Raeburn. Having lost it all, she begins to simply cry. As she does, the leaves begin to close in around her. The leaves contain her in what could only be described as a cocoon. Occasionally, her cries can be heard around the tree. And there, she waits, for whoever wills to get her down and help her resolve the murder of her tutor and the destruction of her home. Yavari hasn’t given up before. She never loses hope. She never loses faith in the nature of the world. But now, she’s at least questioning it.

“What could I have possibly done?”

[thelegacyofgreyleaf]

“I believe in making decisions that benefit our people, even if it means questioning the decisions of those who came before me.”

Tanora, an aspirational leader fueled by the will of a lion, fearlessly confronts challenges, instilled with an unwavering belief in entitlement to victories. King Kyoga Greyleaf, her father, views her as the “golden child,” shaping her upbringing. Tanora, trained in sword fighting and battle magic, draws power from nature like a Druid, yet lacks training in Druidic Nature Magic. The roots of her complex journey lie in a painful event – when she unwittingly provoked her father to test Lenora, leading to Lenora’s disownment. Tanora bears deep guilt for this, intensified by a poignant moment when Queen Lynndin, their mother, crafted matching armored dresses for them. The dresses now symbolize a rift, as Tanora’s actions triggered Lenora’s exile. This heartbreak, along with her mother’s agony, fuels Tanora’s distrust of her father. On the run, she seeks Kyoga’s redemption, hoping to prevent further tragedy.

Image Artist: Jordan Scarzfava

[thelegacyofgreyleaf]

“I believe in making decisions that benefit our people, even if it means questioning the decisions of those who came before me.”

Tanora, an aspirational leader fueled by the will of a lion, fearlessly confronts challenges, instilled with an unwavering belief in entitlement to victories. King Kyoga Greyleaf, her father, views her as the “golden child,” shaping her upbringing. Tanora, trained in sword fighting and battle magic, draws power from nature like a Druid, yet lacks training in Druidic Nature Magic. The roots of her complex journey lie in a painful event – when she unwittingly provoked her father to test Lenora, leading to Lenora’s disownment. Tanora bears deep guilt for this, intensified by a poignant moment when Queen Lynndin, their mother, crafted matching armored dresses for them. The dresses now symbolize a rift, as Tanora’s actions triggered Lenora’s exile. This heartbreak, along with her mother’s agony, fuels Tanora’s distrust of her father. On the run, she seeks Kyoga’s redemption, hoping to prevent further tragedy.

Image Artist: Jordan Scarzfava

[thelegacyofgreyleaf]

Stories from Kyoguild #2

The Werewolf Hunter

By Eveline Brooks

***

The dual-moons shine their bright beams of silver between the low hanging leaves of the decaying trees. A man with skin as pale as the moons themselves, and eyes as black as the night. With his hands in the pockets of his crimson coat, he marches forward with haste and purpose. His hat, just hiding his eyes. While, the ground is snow covered. The man walks as if he is weightless across the snow, leaving not one footprint in his path. He hears the sound of a stick break and he jumps into the tree above. Watching, waiting for HIS prey to reveal itself.

An abnormally large and human-like wolf steps out from the tree line. As it comes to a stop, it stands on its hind legs and sniffs the surrounding area. Like a flash, the man drops out of the tree and swings his leg out, and as the toe of his boot is just about to strike the wolf; his vision is blocked by his hat. The man lands and looks up, there is nothing but dust fluttering away from where the werewolf once stood. As the silver toe-plate on the front of his boot glistens in the moonlight, the reflection shoots up into the man’s face as he cowers away from the light.

“Ah, Fuck!” He exclaims as he falls to his knees, shaking from the pain. “That’s karma I guess. At least there’s one more of these feral beasts put to rest.” He pulls his hat down, struggling to stand again. After he pulls himself back up, he gazes forward into the tree line to recognize the town he’s gotten so acquainted with.

As he limps his way back to town, he stumbles onto a brick sign labeled “Orcton” with “ton” being crossed out and “blood” being scribed by an old blood stain that is hardly visible.

“Orcblood, they’re getting too close.” He snarls as he picks himself up and pushes himself to stumble into town.

As the last vampire returns closer to the local inn, a man who sits on a rocking chair quickly stands and exclaims. “The Werewolf Hunter has returned!”

Before the sentence can entirely leave the man’s mouth, a little girl barges through the front door and jumps down the old wooden steps. She places her hand on the man’s back. “You’re burning up..” She looks up to the man on the patio. “Go get my mother, tell her we need ice and pigs blood.” With a quick glance back down to the vampire, she states, “You’re going to be okay, Vyncint. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

***

Vyncint wakes up, sweating. His skin, still boiling with pain. The curtains are closed as the sunlight peaks out in the small opening.

“I survived another night.. What a shock.” Vyncint stands up and waves his hand at the window, magically closing the curtains the rest of the way. He grabs a tall glass bottle that sits on his nightstand and the cork shoots out of its resting spot. He downs the whole bottle. “Pig blood. That girl knows me so well.” He says.

Light floods into the dark room, but not sunlight. Instead, torchlight from the little girl carrying in another bottle of blood. Her mother steps in behind her and the both of them pull down their hoods revealing their orange and red fox-like ears that extend above their head.

“We weren’t sure you’d make it this time.” The mother says softly, wiping her bloody hands on her apron. “What did more damage this time, the moons or the wolves?

“Only sunlight makes me feel this shitty. Those werewolves wouldn’t be able to land a finger on me even if they wanted to, which they usually do. Marie, where is your sister? Is she running an errand? It’s not safe out there right now.” Vyncint says.

“Roter will be back. Apparently, Kyoga’s daughter got chased out of Kynan. I’m surprised Princess Tanora got away. I wonder, does this have anything to do with the assassination of the King of Belden. I know for one thing, there’s no way I would be able to deal with that many guards alone.” Marie states as she places a cold wet cloth on Vyncint’s skin. He takes another swig of the bottle, wiping the blood off his top lip.

“Finally, Tanora is no longer denying the truth. Tanora must know about King Windhelm’s death. And I’m sure Prince Corvex is on his way with an army now. It’s in his nature to do everything he can to avenge his father.” Vyncint says. “But what does Roter have to do with it?”

Marie sighs. “I was told to not say anything, but you are a family friend. I trust you, Vyncint. Roter was Kyoga’s previous head maid. Roter is the only one that the bastard king paid instead of having enslaved. She took care of the other maids and did what she could. But, regardless. My sister may have been on his payroll, but she isn’t a monster like him. She is nothing like him. As to where she went, she wants to find and help Tanora take down Kyoga.”

“Good luck to her. I want nothing to do with Tanora. Unless there is an actual reason for me, I won’t help her. This isn’t my fight.” Vyncint relays back. “Let’s hope for the sake of the citizens who would be collateral, that I don’t have to intervene. That pack of werewolves should be dealt with for a while. If any had survived, they will wait until their numbers come back. Before trying, knowing I’m here.”

[thelegacyofgreyleaf]

Stories from Kyoguild #1

The Falcon Takes Flight

By Eveline Brooks

***

As the young tiefling girl comes to, all she can hear is the ringing in her ear from the initial explosion, the cracking and popping of the engulfing flame around her. A glowing red light is all she can see as what was once her home is suddenly falling to ruin around her. The elegant spires and structures of this methodically constructed monastery, which once would bustle with life of all shapes and sizes, is fracturing as the wood that makes up the structures splinters and pops in the inferno.

Yavari looks around at her surroundings. Dazed, she is able to make out the blue glow of the gem at the end of her staff. Being on the ground, she crawls through the rubble and debris to her staff. Upon grabbing it, the gemstone projects three glowing orbs that emit a golden aura. A shadow can be seen, they are tall, muscular, and massive. A boar-kin maybe? No. A half-orc.

The orcish figure exclaims, “Raeburn! Over here!” Yavari dashes out of the collapsing building as it comes crashing down. Upon stepping out of the blaze, she falls to her knees. Before her body is pulled to the ground by gravity’s magnetic force, she is grabbed by her shoulders and is pulled to her feet.

“What were you thinking? You could have been killed.” He says.

“My apologies, Archdruid Torrig.” She mutters barely. “The children. The fire. It was too much. It was too far late by the time we arrived.” Yavari releases a sigh as she falls unconscious.

Torrig looks up, with his student cradled in his arms, to watch the building crumble. As he gazes at the support beams, he thinks of the times his tutor would bring him to this temple to practice druidcraft and the Druidic language. The walls and books marked only by Druidic sigils. Each one, more unique and intricate than the last. They all give off a powerful, mystical feeling that only those who draw power from nature itself can understand. “Who could do such a thing?” He says, and as Torrig reminisces on the times of old, lightning strikes.

As the flash fades quickly out of the darkened night sky which is lit by the surrounding flames. An arrow pierces the back of Torrig. He lets out a mighty roar through his jagged asymmetrical tusks. His roar booms throughout the monastery, even after he’s stopped it continues to echo off the enflamed walls.

Torrig falls to his knees as a hooded figure, slim and tall, steps closer and closer to his back. With one quick motion and a second strike of lightning, the assailant plunges a jagged dagger into the back of the Archdruid.

Once again, the mighty half-orc lets out a roar that echoes the surrounding forest. Now his thoughts go from his childhood and upbringing, to his son. Now realizing that if he were to give up, he would lose everything. He wouldn’t be able to raise his son.

Torrig picks up his mace and swings it faster than any creature should be allowed to swing a weapon of such mass. The hooded assailant’s legs get shot out from underneath them. Yavari’s unconscious body falls out of his arms and naturally rolls into a tall bed of flowers. The patch of flowers are tall enough to completely engulf her.

The assailant mutters, “so long” As a wave of purple and gold energy blast is released from his hand, sending Torrig flying into the side of the building. The assailant stands up and looks around. “Raeburn!” He draws a blood red sword. The blade, slightly curved back to slice through it’s prey. The sword emits a dark mystical aura, one that could never be natural. “Ya-vaa-riii!” He calls out. “Damn, she got away. Who knows, maybe the inferno consumed her.” As he begins to walk away, Yavari regains consciousness.

Before getting out of the flowers, Young Raeburn simply asks one word: “Torrig?”

The hooded figure turns around with haste, a magical wind lifts him by the cloak and drops him on the bed of flowers. He raises his cursed blade and slashes through the flowers. As the flowers begin to rapidly decay and fall, there is no sign of Yavari. The only living being left is a single Falcon flying away.

The Falcon flies enough away to land on a tree, she turns back into herself. And there she is, Young Yavari Raeburn. Having lost it all, she begins to simply cry. As she does, the leaves begin to close in around her. The leaves contain her in what could only be described as a cocoon. Occasionally, her cries can be heard around the tree. And there, she waits, for whoever wills to get her down and help her resolve the murder of her tutor and the destruction of her home. Yavari hasn’t given up before. She never loses hope. She never loses faith in the nature of the world. But now, she’s at least questioning it.

“What could I have possibly done?”