Post by Exemplar of Demacia on Nov 8, 2013 18:57:55 GMT -5
WIP
Its was a cold evening, but very little of the winter wind found its way through the smooth stone walls and shuttered windows of the blacksmith's house. What little that did was no match for the crackling fire that stretched across the whole fireplace, spitting and roaring as it angrily threw the occasional ember out and onto the slate slab that sat like a place mat to its home. The young boy and the girl sat with their backs to the unruly fire, eyes wide as the pleaded with the old man. "Please! tell us about the ungoverned ones. How many are there?"
"Can they really disobey the King?" the young girl said incredulously, her suspicion of grandfather reinforced by his penchant for tricks and jokes at their harmless expense.
"Yea. But, there aren't so many as you'd ave met one. And they don't go flauntin et." The old man's sunken eyes looked down at them from over his worn and wrinkled nose with that little missing chip, and his mock scowl. "It's late already, are you sure you can stay awake for such a long story?" He twisted his thick eyebrows in the most exaggerated expression of doubt.
The little boy nodded and with a look and a nudge from his elbow so did the little girl, bobbing her head vigorously.
"Well then" he said, settling his hands on the armrests of the chair. "You'd best tighten your little teeth and stretch those ears, cause you're in for a long one."
Leaning back into his wooden chair, the old man closed his eyes and began to talk.
The Ungoverned
"To tell you of the ungoverned, first you must hear the story of the King, for it is he who created them, though they are not beholden to him.
Every King starts a boy. Whether he becomes a terrible conqueror or lives as a noble son, that boy must first become a man, for neither path grants him the right to rule. His Majesty, Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth, King of great Demacia was the latter. Son of Jarvan the Third, heir to the throne, he was just a boy. Like you. Though he was taught by the finest teachers, born in the brightest halls, and given the finest clothes, none of those things could prepare him to be a King. This is because rightful kings are not born like so many wish to believe, but are made. And so the boy was trained in all manner of things, from maths and reading to political prowess and the art of waging war. All the scholars, and all the soldiers of the land were at the Kings beck at call, as so only the finest were chosen to teach the little prince. He learned about the measurement of grain, and the quality of horses. He learned the history of the kingdom and of Valoran and, of all the great men and women and the greatest heros of the age. This last one was his favorite and by the age of sixteen he became what most people would call a soldier. Still he was a boy of a soldier, though he had stronger arms and quicker wits that before."
The old man opened his eyes and leaned forward in his chair. "You see, his mother would never let him learn to fight with his hands, that is until the King finally convinced her when the young prince came of age."
The little boy couldn't help but interrupt. "Whaaaat? Why did he wait? Doesn't the King do whatever he wants because he is the highest one in all of Demacia?"
"Oh yes, you are quite right. The King rules over all of the people, even the Queen. When you are older you will understand how little that means and why the Queen had her way. Now the boy Jarvan had but one thought on his mind at sixteen, and that... was to become one of the heros he had heard stories about when he was a little boy. As a child he begged his father and his grandfather to tell him stories like this, and when he listened he was foolish enough to believe that fighting only brings good things, like honor and glory. That was good for him, because he didn't have much choice about it. He was on his way to being a King whether he liked it or not, and so his heart was in the right place.
However, his first days as a "soldier" were like any other, and at sixteen, he quickly learned that having your heart in the right place would not keep anyone from cutting it out unless you knew where to put your hands and your feet and the rest of you as well. Fighting is not something you earn with good intentions alone. He learned with the other young ones, and the skilled trainers of the Kings army, and with time he was one of the best fighters his age.
"Of course hes the best because he's the King!" Libby pulled the blanket up to her chin as she sat on the rug looking up at her grandfather.
"Oh no miss, not King yet. I said he was one of the best. He was the best prince, but as a soldier he still was nothing too special. But you're right, that wouldn't do to let last at all. A prince has a future to reach, and a father to live up to. That's why the King ordered his best fighter to teach the boy, and that fighter went by the name of Xin Zhao, whom you both know could fight a hundred men with one hand tied behind his back." Jacob shook with excitement, he knew the story of Xin. "Now he trained the prince in the spear, teaching him to move like the wind, strike like lightning, and to think like an unstoppable river. Because Xin Zhao was the greatest with the spear in all the land, young Jarvan couldn't help but learn and he became stronger and stronger with each day that he trained. The problem was how much stronger Xin Zhao was. No matter how much the boy trained, he couldn't come close to the great Xin Zhao. He learned to move like the wind, and strike like lightning, but Xin Zhao was forever calm, and every time they sparred the young prince was easily defeated.
It was a long time before the young Prince was able to defend himself. He learned more closely than anyone how Xin Zhao preferred to fight, how he moved and how he breathed. Their lessons were always fighting, and eventually it took longer and longer for Xin Zhao to defeat the prince. The boy smiled, now eighteen and headstrong. He though himself coming close to the equal of Xin Zhao, the greatest warrior he had ever known.
He still studied under the strategists and followed the generals lessons as he was told, but his heart wasn't with him. It was dreaming of a battlefield, and of glory. There were'nt a focus on the subtleties of commanding armies in his mind, only a restlessness. The boy wanted to prove himself.
Its was a cold evening, but very little of the winter wind found its way through the smooth stone walls and shuttered windows of the blacksmith's house. What little that did was no match for the crackling fire that stretched across the whole fireplace, spitting and roaring as it angrily threw the occasional ember out and onto the slate slab that sat like a place mat to its home. The young boy and the girl sat with their backs to the unruly fire, eyes wide as the pleaded with the old man. "Please! tell us about the ungoverned ones. How many are there?"
"Can they really disobey the King?" the young girl said incredulously, her suspicion of grandfather reinforced by his penchant for tricks and jokes at their harmless expense.
"Yea. But, there aren't so many as you'd ave met one. And they don't go flauntin et." The old man's sunken eyes looked down at them from over his worn and wrinkled nose with that little missing chip, and his mock scowl. "It's late already, are you sure you can stay awake for such a long story?" He twisted his thick eyebrows in the most exaggerated expression of doubt.
The little boy nodded and with a look and a nudge from his elbow so did the little girl, bobbing her head vigorously.
"Well then" he said, settling his hands on the armrests of the chair. "You'd best tighten your little teeth and stretch those ears, cause you're in for a long one."
Leaning back into his wooden chair, the old man closed his eyes and began to talk.
The Ungoverned
"To tell you of the ungoverned, first you must hear the story of the King, for it is he who created them, though they are not beholden to him.
Every King starts a boy. Whether he becomes a terrible conqueror or lives as a noble son, that boy must first become a man, for neither path grants him the right to rule. His Majesty, Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth, King of great Demacia was the latter. Son of Jarvan the Third, heir to the throne, he was just a boy. Like you. Though he was taught by the finest teachers, born in the brightest halls, and given the finest clothes, none of those things could prepare him to be a King. This is because rightful kings are not born like so many wish to believe, but are made. And so the boy was trained in all manner of things, from maths and reading to political prowess and the art of waging war. All the scholars, and all the soldiers of the land were at the Kings beck at call, as so only the finest were chosen to teach the little prince. He learned about the measurement of grain, and the quality of horses. He learned the history of the kingdom and of Valoran and, of all the great men and women and the greatest heros of the age. This last one was his favorite and by the age of sixteen he became what most people would call a soldier. Still he was a boy of a soldier, though he had stronger arms and quicker wits that before."
The old man opened his eyes and leaned forward in his chair. "You see, his mother would never let him learn to fight with his hands, that is until the King finally convinced her when the young prince came of age."
The little boy couldn't help but interrupt. "Whaaaat? Why did he wait? Doesn't the King do whatever he wants because he is the highest one in all of Demacia?"
"Oh yes, you are quite right. The King rules over all of the people, even the Queen. When you are older you will understand how little that means and why the Queen had her way. Now the boy Jarvan had but one thought on his mind at sixteen, and that... was to become one of the heros he had heard stories about when he was a little boy. As a child he begged his father and his grandfather to tell him stories like this, and when he listened he was foolish enough to believe that fighting only brings good things, like honor and glory. That was good for him, because he didn't have much choice about it. He was on his way to being a King whether he liked it or not, and so his heart was in the right place.
However, his first days as a "soldier" were like any other, and at sixteen, he quickly learned that having your heart in the right place would not keep anyone from cutting it out unless you knew where to put your hands and your feet and the rest of you as well. Fighting is not something you earn with good intentions alone. He learned with the other young ones, and the skilled trainers of the Kings army, and with time he was one of the best fighters his age.
"Of course hes the best because he's the King!" Libby pulled the blanket up to her chin as she sat on the rug looking up at her grandfather.
"Oh no miss, not King yet. I said he was one of the best. He was the best prince, but as a soldier he still was nothing too special. But you're right, that wouldn't do to let last at all. A prince has a future to reach, and a father to live up to. That's why the King ordered his best fighter to teach the boy, and that fighter went by the name of Xin Zhao, whom you both know could fight a hundred men with one hand tied behind his back." Jacob shook with excitement, he knew the story of Xin. "Now he trained the prince in the spear, teaching him to move like the wind, strike like lightning, and to think like an unstoppable river. Because Xin Zhao was the greatest with the spear in all the land, young Jarvan couldn't help but learn and he became stronger and stronger with each day that he trained. The problem was how much stronger Xin Zhao was. No matter how much the boy trained, he couldn't come close to the great Xin Zhao. He learned to move like the wind, and strike like lightning, but Xin Zhao was forever calm, and every time they sparred the young prince was easily defeated.
It was a long time before the young Prince was able to defend himself. He learned more closely than anyone how Xin Zhao preferred to fight, how he moved and how he breathed. Their lessons were always fighting, and eventually it took longer and longer for Xin Zhao to defeat the prince. The boy smiled, now eighteen and headstrong. He though himself coming close to the equal of Xin Zhao, the greatest warrior he had ever known.
He still studied under the strategists and followed the generals lessons as he was told, but his heart wasn't with him. It was dreaming of a battlefield, and of glory. There were'nt a focus on the subtleties of commanding armies in his mind, only a restlessness. The boy wanted to prove himself.
