Lost Days

The sun was just passing overhead as he awoke. The sky was empty of obstacals allowing the bright light of high noon to pierce the bedroom filling it with color. Light seperated into prismatic brillance as it passed through the fine crystals panels, creating illusionary curtains of a dozen different hues. He had always enjoyed waking to the scene, feeling as though his first moments of the day were spent in a protective layer of color and warmth given only to him by the impressive star that fueled his world. The start of everyday teasing him with the beauty of Arvandor, seducing him with what was to come. He carried this image with him always, closing his eyes at times, his mind filling the darkness with verdant greens, exotic reds, and rich blues. It eased his mind to know that in this less than perfect world that at the end of the tunnel was paradise and parts of it could be found all around him

As he stirred from his bed his limbs resisted but ultimately gave in to his commands. He understood their defiance. He had put them through much in the last few days and the hours of rest he had given them were their reward for the job well done. Today would bring an easier pace, they would be thankful of that. He began to clothe himself, the sensation of the cool silk falling across his warm slightly tanned skin. The clothing was a sign of his station more than his wealth, fine garments of gold stitch and exotic silks usually adorned with rare jewels were commonly gifted from diplomats and ambassadors. He wore them well, he was raised for this.

At last he reached for it, the heart of him and what he depended on most. The weight of it familar to him like the weight of his own arms, a natural extension of himself. He clasp his hand around the blade and the feeling of protection from the light came rushing back to him in a concentrated state. This blade was his shield, a barrier between himself and the imperfect world. He strapped the simple leather belt around his waist, an eyesore to his regal and expensive appearance. But that was the way it had always been, the way he was trained. A pretty weapon was no more useful than any other. He liked the contrast of it and knew others would see it as what it was, a tool of war and not of court. The blade burned him with confidence, he wore it with pride, he was born for it.

The soft knock of his Second came next but in his waken dream it rang out like thunder. His inner world shattered all around him and would have to wait. He would visit again in his evening hours and endulge himself once again in the texture of color.