The desert returns to focus, every step in agony. All sense of direction is lost, so he continues forward. His mind a hazy swirl of twisted memories, he tried to leave the horrible deeds he committed forgotten. But the desert just kept bringing them back. Up ahead are ancient dome structures rising on the horizon. He realizes that he had made a grievous error. He strayed to far west from the road. You never go near the burial mounds. The final resting place of the high born who wanted to remain in this world.
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A voice in the dark calls out, "Return home. Remember ..." Once he got close his head begin to ache, a dull throbbing pain that intensifies the closer he got. Once he had reaches the burial mounds, a white hot pain pierces his temples, spreading out from there and causing him to stumble into the shifting sands. His vision was going blurry, losing focus, going dark buried beneath the sands. His eye are getting heavy, his muscles feel like jelly. Then cold blackness creeps into his vision causing his heart to begin to tremble right before his vision fades.680Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf6uvAbUG2w
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In the blackness behind his eyelids, beyond consciousness,his mind recalls memories. Memories of his trial, where he would be judged. He saw the dome formations rising up over the sand dunes, greats heaps of sand built up from the many sandstorms. The
old structure were worn down by wind and sand were quite intimidating on first glance. As he got closer, he could see the great stone wall built to keep out the sand. The sand had built up around the walls forming a massive ramp. The outer doors were locked, more for the safety of would be trespassers than to protect the burial mounds themselves. Originally the doors were locked to deter grave robbers but ever since the the dead had awoken, that changed. From what he heard, the dead may have always been awake. They tend to sleep if royalty enters the tomb and the crypt keepers of old tend to be the most active; always vigilant for desecraters and trespassers. Even the wrought iron and stone doors to the outer chambers were intimidating. He pulls out the key to unlock the door but the door creaks open on its own. Further ahead in the barely furnished room, with massive chunks of stone from the caved in room, slumped against the entry way to tomb itself were two skeletons clad in ancient armor. The sight intimidates him not to go past. But he could turn back now.680Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGyP5QMyexi
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The bones begin to rattle and suddenly come together, standing up with their weapons barring the entrance. A sound like the wind blowing through the tomb, eerily similar to a moaning sound, seems to emit from inside the skeletons. "Who dares enter?" The crypt keepers ask. He pulls out a locket with the royal symbol. "Enter," the skeletal crypt keepers tell him in rough, creaky voices.680Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyCXp1GOGf4
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Inside of the old tomb is dark, even with the torch light. Something rustles past him, something else besides the moaning wind. There was a voice in the dark, ancient and old. The room seem to tremble and dust was knocked from the ceiling with the passing of every word. "You are not of the five houses. Hmmm, someone new joins our mortal fold. A whelp, a child? Who dares to enter these sacred ground."
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He calls back with only the slightest quiver showing the fear he felt in his heart. "I'm Jamethon of the house Stark. My ancestors fought for this country, you've bled your mortal foes with steel that we wrought."
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"Yes, yes, I remember your forefathers. The crafter of steel and iron. Your bloodline is famous. We knew you would come, someday. We are proud of what the Starks have accomplished. Your line fought for us, helped us. You deserve the honor. Few pass without trial, you are no exception. Lost in this place, is the amulet of kings. Rumors and myth, the next successor of the king. If you can find it, more than just high born awaits you but if you can't, just reach the lower crypt. We will grant you the title you deserve."
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Jamethon wasn't afraid of his ancestors or of the terrible voice so deep in the dark. The fear is of the shame on his family if he didn't succeed. He would forever be deemed unworthy, always considered inferior. This notion empowers him.
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The torches ahead suddenly were lit revealing a path ahead. He started following the path going past torch lit murals built into stone walls. He realize this was his shinning moment in his life, people go their entire lives without ever seeing these murals. The path took a right turn past a skeleton that didn't look like the ones outside. The armor was too recent looking, too new. He steps past it but hears the all too familiar rattling noise. He turns around to see a sword coming at him.
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He sidesteps the blow but just barely. Jamethon was given a sword forged, crafted, and blessed for a single purpose; to ward off the dead. The retaliating blow causes the skeleton to crumble to the ground. The encounter causes his heart to race and he swore he could hear it echoing off of the walls.
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He enters a much older looking part of the tomb, a round stone room with alcoves with mummified men clad in ancient armor. He looks at them wearily. The long dead eyes open, glowing an ethereal blue. They stepped out of their grave and deliberately lined up to attack one at a time. Their attacks were surprisingly graceful for mummified cadavers. The first had a sweeping blow that only met stone before his blade found an opening in its armor. The creature fell to its knees but didn't get up. The second was hesitant to strike. It danced with him, before growing bold. The strike was avoided but did not leave room for a counter attack. The second attack came low, a distraction for a shield bash from Its black iron shield. He was caught off guard, barely able to evade the attack. The follow up attack was completely evaded allowing him to get behind his attacker. It too fell to its knees.
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The final one seems to circle around him, hoping for opening that never came. Its attacks were infrequent. He found its movement predictable and dispatch it quickly. Once they were defeated, they rose up and returned to their graves. The corridor ahead divided into a fork both having stairs going down. This was a pivotal moment for him, one he would always come back too. He thought about coming back and taking the right path. Rumors abound of what lies in the endless depth. In the end, like many that came before him, he chose the left path. At the bottom was a man clad in all black armor with ruff outer layers, all of it which were angular. The man was sitting in a ornamental chair.
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The man arose to his staggering height and unsheathing his sword that probably was beautiful in another life. Now it was pitted, dull, and rusty. His strikes were like sledge hammer. The first hit knock Jamethon down.
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He crawls away as the goliath slammed the sword into the ground. The next strike missed him but shattered stone. He went for the legs. Slashing through the knee joints but only resulting in sand pouring out of the torn armor. What the hell was this thing.
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The next strike went over him and shattering the far left wall. He came up under the goliath and severed the right arm. The creature looks down at his stump, then cast its gaze back on to Jamethon. The attacks now were slow and blockable but it seemed impervious to damage until he decapitated it. The creatures body dissolved into sand pouring out from the armor and seeping into the floor. The wall behind the ornamental chair opened up revealing a throne room. In the middle of the room was a throne of gold and marble. Up on the throne was skeleton with crown of animal teeth and thorns. Surrounding the skeleton was a bluish haze in the shape of a man.
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The skeleton rose from the throne and spoke, "You made it here but failed to find the amulet. I will not attack you." The skeleton drew it's sword, but Jamethon didn't move. The ancient king put the sword on both of Jamethon's shoulders. "I knight you High Born by our sacred tradition from the days of the green fields past. In the end there it was, a reflection of life. You enter life and you exit life. As if it's a journey where the destination doesn't matter. The destination is always the same, death. It's what we do during the journey that matters."
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The memories were previously unreachable before, now came flooding back so vividly. Reliving the event causes him to awaken, coughing up sand as he digs his way free. Th more he tries to free himself, the more shifting sand buries him. Finally he breaks the surface, seeing the ancient structure and bright yellow sun. The voice is still there, but he ignores it. As if by some trickery of the gods, he sees in front of him a curved thin Talarian sword buried halfway to the hilt in sand. What a strange find, he muses.
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Another memory gnaws at his mind and he hears someone start speaking, "You have come far. Not many can say they become high born, but we can't stand on ceremony. The Talarians are starting something in the east and they never saber rattle. It has to be war. You must be ready." It was a very old memory from days past and with the memories comes images of himself as a younger man. A wide brow over shadows his deep set large eyes. His hair is not messy but has grown out. Five clock shadow covers his thick square jaw. He has given up his professional look. "You want me to join the army?" his younger self asks.680Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ24euZbxpIa
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Juliana looks sternly at him and then turns away. He remembers the man in his prime before the injuries and old age ravaged his body. In the memory he is in the consulate wearing formal robes and a crest of reeds. "No, I want you to lead them. Not many have the fire that burns inside you. You possess a special breed of cunning."
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He remembers the days past that but it was memories too bloody to remember. Something calls back to him, nagging him. He remembered the two armies seemed familiar. It was like following a trail of clues. Digging through his brain he found the answer and he wishes he hadn't.
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But surely he hadn't done this before. When he left, his father face was taught without the right side of his jaw having the scar received years later. How can he have memories that hadn't happened, memories of his old age. He reaches for his pack only to find it's gone. It had seemingly vanished. Up ahead he sees the memorial to his brother. With his pack gone, so is the flower.
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Walking over, he reaches down to brush the sand from the name plate but his hand passes right through the stone monument. On top of the monument is an old dried up purple mountain flower.
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