Mersam Navem II

The last rays of the sun fought their way through atmosphere and clouds, alighting on a few of the elegant buildings of Mersam Navem, drenching them in red, and leaving the rest to be swallowed up by the shadows. The citizens of the wealthy city began to make their way home, exhausted from a full day's worth of work, and a half day's worth of pay. Boats pulled into the harbor for the night. Among them, was a boat with unique, red, triangular sails, that could be seen from the higest room in the King's castle.

Isabella put down her quill. Picking up the wax and emblem, she sealed the two enchanted letters together, one within the other. Then, elegantly stringing her bow, she knocked the black-feathered, onyx-tipped arrows, used only by the shadow demons that lived in the southern marshes. Pulling it back, Isabella aimed, and let it fly. Not checking to see the arrow hit her mark, Isabella turned to look out of her crimson sunlit room at the quickly growing shadows. Soon, the entire city would be consumed. It was almost time.

Recalling the spell she had worked on for months, she began to string together the arcane words, agily forming symbols with her hands. A few minutes later, the casting began to take its toll. She breathed deeply, and for a moment she wished she could speed up her training. But, only for a moment. With the trap in place, time was of the essence.



Sweeping over to the window, Isabella placed her cloak over her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head, concealing her face, and leaped over the window sill. With a twist mid-air, she grasped silently to the vines that inhabited her wall.

Mersam Navem--The Sinking (Deserted) Ship

The city of Mersam Navem was a prosperous port city, containing everything a respectable prosperous city has: wealth, stature, a temple or two, nobles, dames, crime, poverty, and, of course, the man behind it all, the king. King Ivan Drakenhardt had always been of royal blood. Disputations over the rule of the Kingdom Astal had thrown the entire continent into turmoil, and, eventually, a civil war.


Ivan's mother, Driselle, was gifted with visions, though her husband misunderstood them, deeming her mentally unsound. The after-effects of the visions, which left her sickly and bed ridden, didn't improve his attitude, either. It was during one such vision that Driselle saw the shadows of war looming over Astal, and, more importantly, her son. Upon awakening, she took Ivan, then only three years old, and stole away into the night, collapsing in a nearby farming village. There, she was helped by a dark elf named Tenebras. Leading them to an even nearerby forest, Tenebras helped tend for the young child. Little more than a year later, Driselle had another vision. Grasping him by the arm, Driselle stared fiercely into her son's frightened eyes.


"Ten years, my son," she gasped. "Wait ten more years for the wars to subside, leaving the country in a weak state. They will be in need of a strong leader. You must be ready, Ivan. There is one by the name of Harold the Mighty. Do not laugh my son. He poses a threat to your aspiration to the throne, and your existence. Slay this pretender, take your rightful place as king, restore our family's honor. Do not forget, Ivan. Do not forget..." Driselle trailed off, closing her eyes to the pain. Slipping the family crest into his small fingers, Driselle took a final look at her young boy; a smile found her lips. Her body gave one last shudder before her soul was put to rest, dying in Ivan's four-year-old arms.

From that moment on, Ivan was raised by Tenebras, who, unbeknownst to Ivan, had been the commander of the Valos Elves' army, exceeding at both armed combat and magical. Tenebras realized the potential in the young boy; the only thing more fierce than his potential was his determination. At times it nearly scared Tenebras, and he was quick to assume the position of his right-hand man and patiently bode his time playing the part of his "endearing servant".

In the following years, Ivan grew powerful, and, in his fourteenth year, left the confines of the forest for his date with destiny. Seeking out Harold, the Mighty, Ivan found him in a small crevice, with a large army. Speaking from the shadows, Ivan addressed this would-be-obstacle.

"Your time is at an end. Step down peacefully, and you shall be spared."


Harold had never known fear, did not understand it, and so did not know that this would be a good time to feel it. "Who are you?" he challenged, arrogantly casting his head back and forth. "Show yourself!"


"Huh. You dare?" the voice reverberated off of the walls. *(A cackle arose from all around the army, causing the well-trained war horses to shuffle, whinny, and snort.)*


Something clenched Harold's throat, something caused his hairs of his neck to stand on end. "You have no business here! Do you know who you're talking to?*(Coward! The shadows won't shelter you forever! Show yourself!)*" he raged. When no reply came, he continued, "It is not I whose time is to end in this gourge, swine!" As the last echoes of his voice reverberated off of the canyon walls, he heard a whisper come to him from the darkness.


"Let's see if the fates agree! *(I'm afraid I have to disagree!)*"


From behind Harold, a green flash erupted simultaneously with the screams of his men. Before he could turn to see, however, a flurry of movement caught his eye. He turned in time to see the face of this strange feeling, the face of fear.


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Ivan gave a final twist, putting an end to the soldiers writhings, and yanked out his double-bladed sword. After cleaning the blade on a fallen soldier's relatively clean tunic, he moved to Tenebras's side. Tenebras released his hold on the magic, letting the corpse crumple to the ground, and dousing the emerald flames.


"Where to, my liege?" he enquired.

Ivan smiled.

"Mersam Navem."