Year: 11289

With a wheeze, an old man drags himself up in his bed and weakly throws the thick, plush covers off of himself. He drags his legs exhaustively off the side, where his feet land heavily on the cold, smooth stones underfoot. Grasping the post of his bed next to him, he pulls himself up, legs shaking from the effort. To his right, he takes hold of a cane and, putting his weight on it, limps his way to the large, windowed doors covering the wall.

Grasping the silver-coated handles, he swings the two doors open, the two swinging soundlessly outward. Snow fell heavily on the balcony in front of him as he took a deep, shaky breath into his lungs, then exhaled. The soft cold of the evening was like a clean bath, washing away the cloying sweat and heavy atmosphere of the room behind him.

Without looking backward, the old man limped forward onto the wide balcony, the thick, stone balustrade coming up to his waist. He leans his cane against it, then grasps the edge with his hands, looking outward to the vista in front of him, snow beginning to dust his short, thick hair and silk clothing. His vision was awash in color, markedly grey from the gentle winter season. From the castle proper was a sheer cliff downwards, reaching far below where at the base of the mountain side was a sprawling city, and beyond the city walls he could see farms along a river's edge. Beyond that was a vast mountain range in the far distance, snow covered and stoic. The sinking evening sun could be seen through a small break in the clouds, which washed the snowy landscape in soft yellows and oranges, the mountains themselves splashed with the golden, fiery light.

In the city below him, he could see the people of his capital walking in the streets. Those vendors that sold in the day were shutting their shops, those that sold at night were just opening theirs. Guards could be seen patrolling and interacting with the populace, breaking up a fight there, settling a dispute between laborers here, playing with some of the street children there. Nobles, commonfolk, travelers, adventurers, they all came to this city, HIS city, for any and all reasons, some even staying to set up their own lives and make something of themselves, like he himself did two lifetimes ago.

The old man contentedly sighed, long and deep, seeing what he had grown with his own two hands. Taking his cane up, he slowly limped over to a snow covered chair, dusted it off then sat heavily, cane between his legs. He leaned forward, both hands resting on the cane head, and just watched the land, reminiscing.

He was a young man, not even sixteen years old, when he had left his home to the north. He had been raised in a small village of simple folk, following the ways of the people who had come before him. He traveled one day to a wandering trader, who herself had stopped at her usual place, a place set in a meadow half a day away. She came every two weeks, and sold so many wonderful, interesting things. She would buy their charms, their produce, meat, alcohol, and anything else they had an abundance of, and in turn would bring them metal, glass, and crates of goods from the cities beyond.

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He had spent the night listening to the older woman's stories, his young mind filled with the adventures of the road and the glory of the world beyond, before taking off in the morning. He had driven his cart back to the village proper, only to find it ransacked and pillaged. The people he had known all of his life until then littered the streets, their blood speckling petals of flowers, pooling in dirt, and clotting in the rough grass. He hurried with the cart then, the old horse pulling it unsettled by the rank smell of spilled blood, rushing to his home in a panic. As he got up to the farmstead, the reins fell from his hands, tears tore from his eyes and rolled down his horrified, stricken face. He had jumped unsteadily from the cart, walked up the drive to in front of his home and collapsed to his knees in pure grief, wailing out to a lonely world. His family were nailed up on poles, their decapitated heads placed facing away from the house. His mother and sister's clothing were ripped to pieces, his father's body with countless, massive holes oozing congealing blood throughout his torso, as if something thick had been pierced into his body, twisted, then yanked out before being plunged in again.

He hadn't known how long he had stayed there like that, but eventually he got up, took care of the old draft horse, then began to bury the dead. He spent days clearing a nearby area of roots, bushes, small trees and more. He set himself to work so he wouldn't break, and dug graves for each person of the village. Twenty three souls he buried, making markers for them, using the small amount of lettering he knew to mark who was where. Men, women, children, even newborns were unspared. Overtime his tears dried up, his face set, and he stopped feeling sorry and guilty, and a new feeling settled in the abyssal grief in his heart: rage.

The boy had finished his duty before long. He took everything of value from the village he could find, mounted the old horse and left the soulless, lonely village behind, pointing his way to the trader woman's usual place. He waited for her there, and she had been surprised and happy to see him, before seeing the hardness in his face. He had changed, he knew he looked like it, but seeing her reaction had truly driven it home. He had followed the woman away from the wilderness, pointing toward civilization, and made his claim to never look back and, eventually, get his vengeance.

The old king sighed again, the bite of the memory long since faded, leaving only a small bitterness behind. His thoughts turned to how he had gathered together a small, ragtag army, hunted the raiders responsible, and settled the land where his home had been. He was nearing two hundred and fifty years old now, well past a normal human's time, his longevity increased by magics arcane, divine and profane. The descendants of those that had joined him were now multiple generations in, while he was still there. His own children came and went, his great-grandchildren having grandchildren of their own now. He was beloved by all in his sprawling kingdom, having lifted the poor, destitute and needful to healthiness and happiness.

Shaking his head with a smile, he looks back up toward the land beyond, to the people all throughout. He settles back, watching as the sun dipped down below the horizon.

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That night, a cry went out among the city, one of sadness and grief. Messages spilled across the land to every corner of the kingdom, marking countless faces with tears and grief, with prayers of love to any and all deities to make the way for such a beloved figure. Stories of how such a beloved man could watch and love all within his embrace, no matter what style of life they had chosen, ran long into decades past.

"King Delvyn has passed!"