Snippet #1497116

The thudding clop-clop-clop of Prince Raelen's shaggy Clydesdale added its' thrumming beat to the summers' day. As always, the hardy man refused to ride inside the carriage with his sister and royal servants; how could he pass up such a beautiful day? Peering at the world through one eye, the Prince was half tempted to flip up his eye patch. However, he could see the glowering castle peeking over the horizon and knew better of it—they would not understand his plight, nor his scars. Ever since he'd been a child he'd worn the silken eye patch, with only his sister ever seeing what lied beneath it. It was a family secret, after all. A slight smile tugged at his lips as he tipped his head back, surveying the treeline. He remembered once when Matthew had been curious and nearly plucked it from his face, he hadn't been paying attention and had to lightly scold the young Prince. Now that they were nearing the summer castle, he was excited to see the youngster. There was something about him that managed to make him smile; perhaps, it was an innocence he was not used to seeing back in his kingdom.

Raelen's gloved hand caressed his steeds sweaty neck, and in return, the stallion nickered. Without his great warhorse, he didn't know where he would be. Azazel had been a gift from his father—much to his chagrin—on his twentieth birthday, the only gift he truly appreciated. Till the end of time, he would grow old by its' side; his companionship was always appreciated, whereas other folk bothered him with idle prattle. He reigned his horse towards the carriage, and rapped his knuckles on the wooden window. “We near our destination, Bell!” He called gruffly, allowing himself to grin. Surely his sister was as excited as he was. It wasn't often that they were allowed a small moment of requiem; away from responsibilities, away from tattered parchments, away from boring decisions; away from their stern father and rigid mother. Surely, she was, wasn't she?

“Do—do mind your m—manners, Prince Raelen. Follow your s-sisters example, you're father will be awfully a-angry at me if you act f-foolishly.” An old tittering voice jarred between the windows panes, followed by a series of wracking coughs. Who might he be, you wonder? Old Councillor Cresil; master of ceremonies, and obnoxiously his father's right hand. Raelen often wondered when the old croon would pass on to the Old God's, where he belonged, and leave them alone. There wasn't a moment where the grey-haired man wasn't wagging his crinkled fingers at them, wishing they'd act right and proper. “I hear you fine, Cresil, no need to make yourself ill,” Prince Raelen responded warily, before adding, “ Though, I will meet you at the gates, there are no enemies to meet my blade here.”

Squeezing Azazel's flanks, the hulking Clydesdale broke into a strong canter; a few strides short of graceful, but a handful of thumping steps tougher. Their kingdoms insignia hung heavy at his throat, embedded into the metal rings he wore around his neck. His father had suggested they were something formal for their meeting, but he hadn't understood why—so, he didn't bother. All of the other Princes and Princesses had already met them before, why would he dress up for them? It wasn't as if they were being betrothed to each other. He spat at the thought, gripping the leather reigns tightly. Inter-species marriages weren't allowed. He wasn't even sure what he felt about the matter. Something bright caught his eye, though he couldn't be completely sure what it was. It was only when he heard the welcoming sounds of a flute that Raelen laughed, smoothing his fingers through his hair. "Prince Rouleaux..." He whispered, shielding his eyes to see if he could spot the rivalling Prince. They shared a healthy rivalry, or so he believed.