Post by Exemplar of Demacia on Dec 23, 2013 0:59:02 GMT -5
July 9, 23 CLE
Jarvan IV was on deck even before the cannons rang their salute out across the water, the captain having followed his orders to wake the prince on first sight of land. His clothes were warm and dry, his armor set away, his bandages fresh. The Demacian Royal Fleet lay at anchor, a field of lights upon the water that spread out before the greater glow of Demacia's coastline. The city cut through the evening darkness, light reflecting off its walls and towers. So much of the city was white, and it was visible from miles away.
Still, as several others gathered on deck, Jarvan IV couldn't help but to look away from the city. He stared out to sea, deep in thought. Their meeting would have dire consequences, echoes that would sweep out like waves across Valoran. He pondered the crashing of those waves, and how he would defend against the coming tide. He thought of the waters and what army of the dead they might obscure. The city would be attacked, there was little doubt in his mind, and this he would be ready.
Yet another matter pulled him from his body and set his thoughts out across the continent. Somewhere, perhaps far far away, Fiora lived. She was with Azazel, betrayer of the Shadow Isles, and the thought turned his eyes back to the city. There would be people waiting to receive them, to welcome him and their champions home. They would want news. Would Azazel be among them? Would Fiora? He remembered the pained look on her face, remembered the chain around her neck and her captor's cold eyes. What torments had she suffered at the hands of his enemies? What had she suffered alone, without sign or hope of release? Fear for her overwhelmed his hope even now, that he might hold his wife and find her faith in him, or her own pride broken beyond healing. He would hold her safe, and then know. His fists tightened, and he walked to the ships railing. He could not let the sailors see his face. Then needed to think him stronger than he was.
A deeper part of him hoped the waves would come soon, and bring with them every creature that had even looked upon his wife with ill intentions, that he could kill them with his own hands. This was not an enemy he could overpower. He would have to outwit this force, defraud them of victory, play their weaknesses against his strengths. Father would know what to do. He would be among those waiting to hear of the events that transpired. Tonight would be a lot of explaining and planning. Let war come slow, and let the city be ready. The prince gripped the railing and let out a deep breath. Let him have news of Fiora. He would settle for that. If Azazel's sickly face was the first he saw at dock, then he would rejoice.
Lamplight approached from behind but Jarvan ignored it. Whoever wanted to talk to him would have to speak first.
Jarvan IV was on deck even before the cannons rang their salute out across the water, the captain having followed his orders to wake the prince on first sight of land. His clothes were warm and dry, his armor set away, his bandages fresh. The Demacian Royal Fleet lay at anchor, a field of lights upon the water that spread out before the greater glow of Demacia's coastline. The city cut through the evening darkness, light reflecting off its walls and towers. So much of the city was white, and it was visible from miles away.
Still, as several others gathered on deck, Jarvan IV couldn't help but to look away from the city. He stared out to sea, deep in thought. Their meeting would have dire consequences, echoes that would sweep out like waves across Valoran. He pondered the crashing of those waves, and how he would defend against the coming tide. He thought of the waters and what army of the dead they might obscure. The city would be attacked, there was little doubt in his mind, and this he would be ready.
Yet another matter pulled him from his body and set his thoughts out across the continent. Somewhere, perhaps far far away, Fiora lived. She was with Azazel, betrayer of the Shadow Isles, and the thought turned his eyes back to the city. There would be people waiting to receive them, to welcome him and their champions home. They would want news. Would Azazel be among them? Would Fiora? He remembered the pained look on her face, remembered the chain around her neck and her captor's cold eyes. What torments had she suffered at the hands of his enemies? What had she suffered alone, without sign or hope of release? Fear for her overwhelmed his hope even now, that he might hold his wife and find her faith in him, or her own pride broken beyond healing. He would hold her safe, and then know. His fists tightened, and he walked to the ships railing. He could not let the sailors see his face. Then needed to think him stronger than he was.
A deeper part of him hoped the waves would come soon, and bring with them every creature that had even looked upon his wife with ill intentions, that he could kill them with his own hands. This was not an enemy he could overpower. He would have to outwit this force, defraud them of victory, play their weaknesses against his strengths. Father would know what to do. He would be among those waiting to hear of the events that transpired. Tonight would be a lot of explaining and planning. Let war come slow, and let the city be ready. The prince gripped the railing and let out a deep breath. Let him have news of Fiora. He would settle for that. If Azazel's sickly face was the first he saw at dock, then he would rejoice.
Lamplight approached from behind but Jarvan ignored it. Whoever wanted to talk to him would have to speak first.
