Dulcetta’s Decidedly Deadly Dreams

Happiness is ever elusive and always fleeting and the joy that King Urdurel felt, although sublime, was dependent, absolutely, on the love he felt for his young wife; Dulcetta and consequently, on the love she openly returned to him.

From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, he was a changed man. No longer driven by the need for conquest, his raging heart had been instantly quelled to the point of conciliation with those nations he’d so recently waged war upon.

Despite giving up his rightfully earned, battle-won and blood soaked title, the now; Lord Urdurel maintained his castle stronghold in Cottis and still retained power over Stowan and the surrounding conquered kingdoms but now they flourished under his newly benevolent stewardship. 

Then though, after the birth of their perfect daughter and fifteen years of joy and peace, beautiful Dulcetta fell suddenly ill. It was subtle at first, just fractious sleep and fevered dreams. 

She sought solace in her daily horse rides, walking her loyal hound; Belvedere and spending time with her beloved daughter; Lamenta, but nothing soothed her tortured soul, and then, over the next few months, it became worse. Much worse.

Paranoia, violent outbursts and self-harm. She’d awake in the night, drenched in sweat and screaming, as if pursued by black-hearted hags in her terrifying nightmares. 

Despite all Lord Urdurel could do, all the healers, priests and sorcerers he drafted in to help, his beloved wife lost her mind and her enfeebled, frail body soon followed.

After just a few months of failing health and mental anguish, all that was left of Dulcetta, was her grieving fourteen-year-old daughter and a husband, broken and overcome with rage anew.

The Fifteen Year Onslaught

Sitting tall in the saddle atop his large, heavily barded and well trained warhorse, King Urdurel glances sidelong across the first rank of his armoured lancers. They face the opposing army flanked by hundreds of loyal foot-soldiers and archers. This was to be the last battle in his decade-and-a-half campaign. Five of the six kingdoms along his border had already fallen but this final one had proven to be the most resistant.

After each battle, each victory, King Urdurel offered the best of the vanquished a place at his side. All they had to do was swear absolute fealty to him and, when offered the headsman’s axe as the alternative, most did. And so, with each triumph, his army grew considerably larger and more powerful.

Leading his opposition, less than a thousand yards away across the valley, two figures, armoured in the silver their land is renowned for, stand beside the large tent displaying their colours. Two figures of about the same age as King Urdurel was when he killed King Vagitus. A young man and a young woman. Twins. Their army is impressive and large enough to offer a real challenge to his own armed forces. King Urdurel was confident of a victory, but the lay of the land offered no strategic advantage to either side and, regardless of tactics, hundreds, if not thousands of men would die this day.

Much to King Urdurel’s surprise though, the twins mount their horses and, riding under a white flag, without guards, gallop toward him.

Intrigued rather than intimidated, the Stowanian army part before them and, once dismounted, escort them to King Urdurel’s own command tent.

Inside, King Urdurel receives them with only two of his most trusted captains for protection.

The two nobles remove their plumed, silver helmets in the kind of coordinated motion only twins are capable of. They’re both tall and beautiful, with pale blond hair and eyes as blue as sapphires. It’s the young man who speaks first but King Urdurel can hardly drag his gaze away from the young woman. A woman barely half his age.

“King Urdurel, we are here to broker a peace between our Kingdoms.”

King Urdurel laughs.

“Peace? I don’t want peace. I want to see your parents’ heads on spikes. I want to see your skull crushed beneath my iron heel. I want all the fabled silver in your land transferred to my own coffers.”

Then the young woman takes her turn.

“Our parents are dead. My twin brother and I now lead our people and we would not have them die on this field. Take our silver, make our realm a vassal state and rule over us, but don’t let your bloodlust go any further.”

King Urdurel stops laughing.

“Why should I do that? What assurances would I have that you wouldn’t just plot against me from your position of safety?”

It’s the young queen who responds again, her voice sweet but firm.

“You leave my brother; Lucius here to govern in your name and I will submit to you as your prisoner. If my brother makes a move against you, no matter how seemingly insignificant or subtle, you can have my head.”

Taking her in, from her delicate features to her slender but obviously shapely frame under her ornate armour, King Urdurel stops, amazed with himself that he’s actually considering her proposition.

“What is your name?”

The beautiful young woman, sensing a glimmer of hope, smiles faintly for the first time. A smile so warm, so disarming, that King Urdurel’s heart seems to stop mid- beat within his chest.

“My name? My name is Dulcetta.”

Becoming what you Hate

Holding a bloody crown in his hands and looking down from his lofty balcony, Urdurel takes in the cheers and applause from the chanting crowd below. 

“The King is dead. Long live the King!”

At just eighteen-years-old, Urdurel had already succeeded in the first two of his promises; he’d killed the drunken Captain Glabella while he’d been naked and distracted in a brothel and, after raising a small army, he’d beheaded King Vagitus the IV during a well organised coup. All of the royals in the castle; men, women and children, were given the axe with the surviving soldiers and servants offered a simple choice; Serve under Urdurel or share their Master’s fate.

He wasn’t finished though, not even remotely. If he was going to retain this Kingdom, he’d need to destroy all who would oppose him and that meant any remaining enemies within his realm and the royal families of all six of the Kingdoms along their border. Stowan’s largest boundary though, stretched along the Fey wilds, a land that he could safely ignore whilst warring against all the other Human realms.

Below him the large crowd continued to chant his name.

“Long live King Urdurel! Long live King Urdurel! Long live King Urdurel!”

His expression momentarily souring, Urdurel considers his new title. Would it be so wrong to be called ‘King’? Surely it was different if their King was one of them, one of the common people and not some high-born, inbred and entitled popinjay?!

Urged on by the crowd, Urdurel takes Vagitus’ blood splattered crown, raises it over his head and then pulls it down, firmly into place.

King Urdurel? 

He could learn to live with that.

Way Back When Story

Urdurel was a young man. Barely a man at all at just fourteen, but a man he must be, as his parents were now both dead. Killed by the hand of their King’s chief enforcer, merely because they dared speak out against the ever increasing tax burden to fund King Vagitus the IV’s extravagant and pampered lifestyle.

The Brutish Captain Glabella had spared his life, not out of mercy but as an added insult. As a son of two millers, Urdurel had strength but no combat skill and was easily beaten down by the professional soldier.

Lying in the dirt beside his parents’ butchered bodies, Urdurel swore revenge. Revenge against his parents’ killer. Revenge against his Lord and master. Revenge against all the bloated and self-indulgent aristocracy.

He would recover his strength. He would train with the sword. He would kill every titled blue-blood in Stowan and all the surrounding realms.

Favoured Son

The generously proportioned and well muscled;

Dajambat Prap lays down the sturdy wooden tent-poles and heavy canvas she’s carrying and turns to her husband.

“That was a noble act. Tough as our adopted little son is, it would have been almost certain death for him in the wastelands. Now he and his funny dog, Mir Hundur still have a chance at life.”

Mahd Boss gazes back at his wife.

“Then why does it feel as if I’ve betrayed him?”

Confounding tradition, the Orcan chief of the Darkstar clan had only ever taken one wife and he trusted her judgement above all others, sometimes even above his own.

Closing the short distance between them, the prodigious, middle-aged Orcess places a strong hand on her husband’s broad shoulder.

“You saved him once before, gave him a good life, a family and now you’ve saved him once more.”.

Mahd Boss’ heavily tusked head nuzzles into his wife’s wild hair.

“And what of our other children? Why didn’t I send any of them with him to the safety of the Human lands?”

Fully wrapping her strong arms around her husband’s wide neck, Dajambat Prap squashes herself tight to him.

  

“You know full well that the accursed Red-eyes are targeting our tribe’s Orcish blood-line. They are unrelenting and will chase us down wherever we run. Only Halfling-blooded Liga Bur can escape them and there’s no need for him to die pointlessly trying to protect his younger brothers and sisters… Trying to defend us.”

Mahd Boss pats his wife’s plump behind and sighs.

“True enough.”

Then Dajambat Prap snarls.

“Besides, he’s the only one of them that would be accepted for anything more than lowly mercenary work. Despised by their leaders. Hirelings for the worst scum that the Humans have to offer. And you, my wise husband, know more than anyone how that feels.”

The massive Orc Chieftain breathes heavily.

“True again my love. Perhaps our clever boy will discover a path beyond mere ‘grunt’ work, beyond just hunting and fighting for survival. Perhaps he will find friends in the Human lands. Perhaps good fortune will shine upon him at last.”

It’s the thick set Orcess’ turn to sigh.

“Gruumsh willing, my Chief; Gruumsh willing.”

Mirrorworld - The Next Session

 

Dancing with Death

Back behind the heavy, decorative curtain, the (still-desperately-pretending-to-be-middle-aged) Elven actor blinks rapidly, as if coming out of a deep trance. The applause from the auditorium though is still ringing loudly around the open-air theatre and the curtain rises once more to reveal a rapturous standing ovation.

Automatically stepping forward, his fingers still interlaced with those of the two actors either side of him, Gielgud Beams widely and bows flamboyantly as the clapping continues and perseveres long after the final curtain fall.

Still confused, Gielgud looks to the younger, beautiful actor on his left, who grins impishly in return.

“You were amazing sir! The best I’ve ever seen you! You were truly inspired tonight!”

Visibly shaken, the veteran actor makes his way back to the privacy of his dressing room, leans heavily on the mirrored vanity table and stares deeply into his own, grease-painted reflection.

‘Best they’d ever seen him perform’?

‘Truly inspired’?

He couldn’t even remember being on stage. It was as if  he’d been possessed by something… otherworldly, for the entirety of his performance. From his opening monologue until his dramatic closing speech.

No, that’s not quite right. He can still remember locking eyes with a remarkably tall Elf in the centre of the front row (much to the annoyance of everyone sitting behind him) and holding contact. A handsome youngster who’d caused Gielgud’s old heart to flutter. Sadly he’d been accompanied by a youngish Elven maiden.

And then…

Nothing.

Carefully removing his long golden, pre-plaited wig and starting to disrobe, a shudder runs through his thin Elven frame. A standing ovation is a wonderful thing to receive, but disconcerting when you know it wasn’t truly for you.

Still, the play he’d just performed was lightweight; barely more than an expanded children’s pantomime show really.

‘Dancing with Death - A musical adventure with magic and faries'.

A swashbuckling action story about terrifying, demonic Orcs and beautiful, otherworldly Fey. A tale about a band of steadfast brothers in arms overcoming unimaginable evil.

Gielgud shudders as he tries to pull himself back together. Whatever had caused his uncharacteristically virtuoso performance, be it muse, demon or deity, he’d accept it with unquestioning gratitude. An actor’s fame or notoriety sells tickets and puts bottoms on seats. If he was as good as he’d just been told, tomorrow’s show will be an absolute sell out!

Now though, a glass or five of fine Elven wine in the performer’s bar to steady his nerves is most definitely called for.

…

Far above him, in another realm, a disembodied but melodious Elven voice laughs in agreement.