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| - There are many legends about the ancient age of our culture. Most of those are almost complete myth, created by people just to entertain themselves. But some of them are largely based in real facts and real people. In this chronicle I intend, using a plethora of information not available to our great bards of old (Like the journal of Marin Treggor, and the logs of the "Cherry Woods' Knights"), to separate fact from myth, as an alchemist separates gold from rock, using mercury. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt her, in fact, I’ll even adopt her after you marry me.”
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| abstract
| - There are many legends about the ancient age of our culture. Most of those are almost complete myth, created by people just to entertain themselves. But some of them are largely based in real facts and real people. In this chronicle I intend, using a plethora of information not available to our great bards of old (Like the journal of Marin Treggor, and the logs of the "Cherry Woods' Knights"), to separate fact from myth, as an alchemist separates gold from rock, using mercury. The most logical place to start a chronicle is the beginning. But one of the hardest parts of writing a successful chronicle, is to discover exactly where the beginning is. For the purposes of this chronicle, the beginning will be Geresmes fourteenth, 524 years after the reign of King Arthis, the first. So, done with the digression, I shall begin the chronicle. Geresmes fourteenth was a dark stormy night. King Rikerd VI was wide-awake on his bed, unable to sleep, unable to wake up. He was tired, tired of all the problems, tired from royalty. Another rebellion had broke up on the northeastern provinces, and he was sure the Lukavians were, as always, responsible. The last thing he needed was another war though. The economy was in shambles after the last one, and that was because he had won. He glanced at his wife, beside him. They were married for twenty seven years but he still loved her as much as the first year. And his daughter was sleeping, with no worries at all on her little bed. He did this for her, of course. At forty nine he had lived more than most peasants already, it was not like he would be able to reap the benefits of his work…but she would, and that was what mattered. Suddenly, Rikerd heard a sound, or at least he thought he did, the storm was too noisy to be sure…but it seemed that the old rusty hinges of the antechamber’s door screeched, for a second or so. He got up from the bed, grabbed his sword (“Hm, heavier than I remember.”) and slowly peeked around a corner…Suddenly, a bright, blue…something grabbed his head, and a moment later, it had exploded, making little to no sound. The queen, however, (either because of the sound, or because of the mystical connection they say exists between husband and wife) woke up. Before her was the masked and cloaked form of a man, wearing a seemingly heavy metallic gauntlet on his right hand and with a bright, blue…something, where his left arm should be. And if this was not enough to put fear in queen Eljabé, she saw the headless body of a man wearing royal clothes lying on the ground. Astonished, the queen asked “Wh-what have you done!?”, The man answered in a thick accent that Eljabé couldn’t identify: “I think I killed your husband.” And laughed. “Pl-please, d-do what you want with me, just don’t hurt my daughter!”, she glanced at the baby, still sleeping peacefully. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt her, in fact, I’ll even adopt her after you marry me.” “Marry you?”, the queen was confused, but before he answered, she already knew why. According to the old Ruivocan traditions, when one member of the “royal couple” died, and the surviving member married again, his or her spouse would automatically become king or queen. “Who…who are you?”. She couldn’t see his face behind the mask, but somehow she knew he was smiling when he answered: “You can call me king.”
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