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I had my eyes fixed on the floor the entire ways way until I was at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne. The floors were typical in fashion with the rest of the castle, tiled with stones of various colours in a massive effort to recreate a scene of some sort of historic happening. Also typical was the object of those scenes, battle, blood, and sacred light stemming from the king. In fact the floor was tiled to actually imply the current holder of the throne holds a light far more powerful than that of the ancient king depicted in those floor tiles.

For even if the ancient king laid the foundation, the current king holds the kingdom on his shoulders,

I was told this much later.

I was told to kneel before the king by the same retainer which brought me into the audience hall. My eyes still fixed on the floor, not daring to oppose, or otherwise offend, the powerful lord of this faraway land, I complied. I reflected shortly on what the reaction of the king would be, after presenting the message and gifts I brought with me on my mission. I did not reach a conclusion, other than that they would be surprised, surely. Most other kings on my mission had been elated to receive the gifts, but I could not be certain with this one.

The King of Grunni's voice sounded in the silent hall. His vocals sounding commanding against my frame, I was told to 'Rise'. With as smooth a motion as I could produce, I arose, my will resolved to fulfill my mission. He sounded for me to 'look upon the king with my foreign eyes'. I raised them from the floor, slowly taking in every detail. The steps for their throne were cut from the mountain the castle was situated upon, no decorum outside of being painted a heavenly yellow, a reflection of the 'light' ever present in the murals. The legs of the throne were solid amber, reflecting a mellow yellow, also making the flat seat of the throne seemingly float on light. A symbol for the king then? I reflected. The aforementioned seat a humble golden-wood, with inscriptions of solid gold, too far away to make out from my position, but a testament to the humbleness of this emmisary of their god in the flesh.

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I also pointed my eyes on the flesh itself. Their skin, not as fair as the old raven king, but the colour of the sands of the white desert still. Their feet, shaven like all of his ilk before him, were covered in scars from untold amounts of ritual flaggelations. Their legs, covered by a flowing sheet of sky-blue 'fil' and embroidered with blood-red thread, told of their travels from the higher lands. Their torso, bare from cloth, yet covered in a pelt of their dark golden hair, was as broad as an oxen. It was inscribed with the old language, being inked in gold pictography into their very skin. Their arms, the size of a griffon's and just as full of plume, were inked in the same fashion. On their fingers were the traditional rings of nobility, their gems twinkling softly, alluring and soft to the eye. This served as a juxtaposition to their truly massive hands, ones which could strangle a horse if they so wished it, and were as hairy as those of a lycanthrope. Their head, a shroud. Words alone cannot hope to describe the experiences that must have happened to their soul for their eyes to have been so steely cold as they were. Their intensity, forged in battle, must have been enough to kill those of weaker will alone. They shone like cold beacons in their hood of hair. No part of their face visible, it being covered in a mane so massive one could have mistaken it for a cloak, with the exception of their eyes, gleaming a cold sinister light. If they genuinely wore a crown, I would not know, their hair covering it. The gold of the crown, lost in the gold of the flesh, gleaming all the same of their holy yellow light. His sound, warm and genuine, yet his eyes cold, asked to humour his question;

'What does this faraway traveller seek to impart on the most gracious king of Grunni?'

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