Chronicles of Messallóvaria: Rise of the Dark Plague by Engle L.R

Author:Engle, L.R.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2024-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

“To master life, you must first master thy surroundings. For a prideful man amidst the unknown suffers from the illusion of strength and prosperity. He has never been so lost or so weak.”

—ANCIENT ELVEN PROVERB

BOUND WITH HEAVY chains, Ezriel and his Cirventian companions were led into a massive room made of stone walls that rose high into a bowled ceiling before coming to a sharp peak. Within the walls at about chest height were gold-plated tiles that reflected the flames of several torches, and large golden bowls of fire that decorated the elaborate room. Several large palm-like plants nearly two men tall occupied decorated clay pots scattered about near block pillars that were fitted with small trays topped with bowls of smoking incense. About the room was a strong aroma of sage and other exotic smells foreign to the Cirventians’ noses. The amount of detail that went into the decoration and furnishings was overwhelming, even more than what the elaborate halls of DunnChester had to offer.

Several guards escorted the prisoners through the zigzag of towering pillars until they reached a large opening below the peaked ceiling. Multiple stairs fitted with a beautifully designed red carpet with golden stitching led up to a throne designed as large wings of gold that spanned out to either side of the black leather seat where the emperor sat. The emperor was an abnormally large man, nearly seven feet tall, with tan skin and jet-black hair that was made into a ponytail pulled to the back.

The prisoners were led about twenty feet from the throne before being jerked to an abrupt stop.

“Welcome to Ankaara. This is the almighty Emperor Basillius Haratideus Mezimier the Fourth! Ruler of all the lands!” a soldier from their side announced.

The prisoners stood there in the awkward silence. Ezriel was about to greet him but was interrupted. “Kneel!” demanded one of the guards. The other guards pushed the chained prisoners down onto the concrete ground. “He is the emperor. You shall pay your respects,” the same guard growled, slowly raising a sword to Marcius’s neck.

The emperor studied the subjects individually, looking over their clothing, armor, hair, pointed ears—everything that made them so different. After a moment’s silence, the salt-and-pepper-bearded behemoth of a man finally spoke. “Where is it that you come from?” His voice was quite deep and authoritative as it echoed across the large room. The group gazed upon each other and then back to Ezriel, who decided that it was best to answer in some capacity.

Ezriel cleared his throat. “My name is Ezriel, and these are my companions,” he stated, raising his chained hands to either side. “We come from a region not far from here. We are on a mission to find the source of the Dark Army and—” The guard nearest him struck him in the upper back with the pommel of his sword, sending Ezriel down to the ground from his knees.

“Let him speak,” the emperor commanded.

Ezriel looked back at the man who had struck him, before turning to the emperor.

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