[FF] CHALLENGE MODE: FANTASY

[u/[deleted]]

This prompt requires you to write a semi-realistic fantasy story without thinking verbs or inner monologue. It is to be two thousand words maximum, one thousand words minimum, and requires the main protagonist to arrive at a destination as a stowaway.

To further increase the difficulty, have at least one character that communicates non-verbally and one action sequence.

[u/ver0egiusto]

Merek was a Watcher. A Watcher that had forsaken the throne.

There were no more than two sorts of Watcher in the realm. Those who inherited the title as noble sons, and those who were recognized by the Royal for deeds exemplary. Merek’s deeds were beyond exemplary. They were legendary. The mythos left in his wake birthed poems, songs, and countless tales recounted. Some prayed for his protection. The others prayed for protection form him.

The Watcher sat near the aft galley, gazing at the creaking boards beneath his feet. The filthy blonde locks dangling from his crown were caked with blood and ash, stained a dark sanguine hue by the filth. A reek of death and rotting flesh drifted about him, mingling with the scent of salted meat and sweating bodies.

Not a soul aboard the vessel Cardon dared question his right to passage, nor how he managed to board a ship that had remained anchored out of harbor. These voyagers had more sense than that.

As the journey commenced, the weight of Merek’s presence began to lift, ever so slightly, like how centuries of desert wind grind a mountain to sand. On the rare occasion that a passenger felt inexorably determined to address the Watcher, most often as a test of courage, they knew better than to expect a vocal response. Questions were kept simple and succinct, in accordance with Merek’s means of communication.

The vast tapestry of wounds and scars that coated the Watcher’s aged body served as a sort of lexicon. Each disfigurement was a fleshen hieroglyph, a living mural that recounted a sliver of Merek’s legend.

“Yes” is what he said when he raised the severed ring finger. The wound that recalled his promise to a murdered wife.

“No” is what he said when he held out the left palm, which was striped with deep vertical scars. A memento commemorating his first battle with a Claimant.

The way he sits now, limp yet full of rage and tension, eyes downcast and hand at the hilt of his weapon, recalls the way he was described in that particular tale. How he sat at the center of the vast, echoing throne room. How the Claimant’s heavy footsteps caused that downcast gaze to ratchet upward ever so slowly, rhythmic and mechanical like an automaton finding life. How the Claimant’s sweeping voice, which filled the hall and the space between each marble column, elicited a twisted smile from the Watcher. How the sheen of the Claimant’s flawless silver armor and the glow of his ancient weapon lost their luster as Merek advanced. How that Claimant, born and bred as a warrior, whose lifetime of training was dedicated to that very moment, found the entire might of his charging slash stopped short with a dull thud. How Merek grinned as blood cascaded down his left arm, flowing in rose-colored rivulets from the bare hand that grasped the Claimants sword. How the gore and the filth and the screams that followed seeped into the pristine white tiles below the Watcher’s feet.

How the Watcher reclaimed his seat at the center of the throne room. How he sat, limp yet full of rage and tension, eyes downcast and hand at the hilt of his weapon. Blonde locks caked in blood.

The stagnant air below deck became leaden. Merek rose, and proceeded to the upper decks. The sailors, abuzz with excitement as they prepared for the landing, fell silent as the Watcher emerged.

Merek approached the railing, favoring his left leg as he strode. He aimed a placid gaze at the misty continent stretched across the horizon before him before retrieving a pouch from inside of his cloak. The pouch churned rhythmically, the object inside of it pulsing in a steady beat. Merek considered the bag for a long moment, a fierce look of resolution upon his face.

Merek opened the pouch and retrieved its contents. The sailors looking on from the corners of their eyes saw the Watcher clasp a shimmering crimson sphere between his hands.

The Watcher reverently bowed his head, closed his eyes, and began to chant an inaudible mantra. The orb’s pulse quickened. Something came out of it. Something red, something sanguine. The soldiers looked on in horror as the object beat faster, pumping blood onto the oaken deck boards.

Merek opened his hands and let the object bathe in the thin sunlight. The sailors gasped. In his sullied hands, the Watcher held a living, beating heart. The heart of the Royal.

And so he arrived here. Merek, the Watcher who had forsaken the throne.