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THOSE I SEE


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Spoiler

I do not own ANY of the artwork.

The original artists are credited.

 

 

 


 

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[Ouzo Kim]

[!] An artistic depiction of the young Barbanov Prince.

 

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THOSE I SEE

______________________________________________

 

Arn, oh Arn,

Thought the youngest litter of Barbanov.

 

A heavy-eyed Nikolas tossed and turned in the night, powerless to shut-eye, as the wails of those who walked the night peeled his ears. As those wails blared, the Prince scrunched his damp hands into fists and thought to wake his mother.

But no.

 

“It is just your whimsical imagination, chero,” 

The mother explained, checking wardrobes and under his bed.

 

He had seen those who roam the night, talked to some, and even hid from those who spiked fear in him.

 

THOSE FEW WHO HAUNT.

 

And those many who did not believe his woes, confining the boy to a jail of seclusion, without a key in sight.

 

Not able to escape into sleep tonight, Nik wrapped a blanket around his shoulder and crept off to the crypts, pondering once more, 

Arn, oh Arn.


 

The musty timber door of the crypts craned open, and the peaceful silence broke with flaming echoes. Creeping inside, the Prince spied eighty spindly legs revealed, flitting across the cobbles.

 

It brought a curious glint to his otherwise gloomy eyes, so he leant down and allowed it to crawl onto his hand.

Another friend,

Noted the Prince, to take on this venture.

 

Arn resided at the lowest level of the crypt, and with him kept for company was usually a broom.

By the time Nikolas reached his dear friend, through the swirling, weedy depths of the crypts, he thought, his late night caper to be foolish - hearing the scolding voice of his mother.

 

There he was then, Arn, standing by the grave of King Petyr I.

Nikolas was relieved, but that relief was never joy, instead, a warm comfort.

 

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[Tyra Keen]

[!] A hastful sketch done by the young prince, a depiction of Arn.

 

“You look tired, boy,” 

Spoke the worker, mopping the floor with a feeble sweep of his broom. Even then, the dust upon those stone floors kept still- unfazed by Arn’s tireless work. Odd, one may think.

 

“Vy have seen better days,”

Came Nikolas’ reply.

Arn had seen better days.

 The aged worker never slept, wondered Nikolas, and a large gash was carved into his head, but the Prince never pried - it was his assumption the medicine would be far too expensive for a common man.

“Ar. . ha- ha.” 

The lax figure fell humourous to the joke of Nikolas, and welcomed the Prince closer, leaning against his broom.

 

“But da, sir. It is she who keeps me restless again,”

The young boy’s gaze was stained dark from those nights he spent without rest. Approaching Arn, he brushed the back of his hands against his weary eyes, which were now prattled by dust from the crypt. 

 

See. . I told you it was much cozier down here,”

Arn recalled from a past talk with the Prince, lowering his form as the Prince came to kneel.

 

A low light of the crypt encroached the pair of them then, yet the warmth of their conversation kept the night at bay, ‘til the very next dawn. The youngest Barbanov opened an eye, and found himself in that low light, with Arn not seen. A panic griefed him, though as he swiveled his eyes, there he was - Arn.

 

HAD HE NOT SLEPT?

DOES HE EVER?

 

WHY DOES THE CRYPT ONLY BECOME DIRTIER DESPITE HIS WORK?

 

And there it struck him, as he bid Arn farewell, and traveled the spiraling stairs up to the mossy door, before unfurling it to open. The Haeseni winter sun grazed against the Prince’s olive, freckled skin, and now he understood.

 

His friends had not been able to see Arn... or Klemenita…

 

When they said they could… they had lied…

 

His mother brushed off those wails in the Palace…

 

That apparition in the Swamp…

 

THERE ARE THOSE THAT OTHERS SEE.

AND THOSE I SEE.


 

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Arn. .

Mischa thought to herself, gently wiping at Koeng Siggy's tomb. Her tutor, Elizaveta, loomed just beside the Lesanov, reading to her dearest children.

 

He couldn't have lied. Perhaps he is taking his rest.

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Manon Yvaine stood at the entrance to the crypts, a bundle of wildflowers clutched in her hands. The heavy wooden doors creaked as the girl entered, and her footsteps echoed as she crept downstairs to the lowest level of the hall of Kings. It was the least she could do, Manon figured. She could neither see Arn nor hear him, but she wasn't foolish enough to take that to mean he wasn't there.

 

The little bit of life did the place good. 

 

Everything was just as she had left it, when she reached the bottom. The floors ever-dusty, save for Nikolas's footprints. Her attempts to sweep hadn't lasted long, but never mind. The white flowers in their glass vase had begun to wilt. Just in time, then. Manon withdrew the old bouquet from its vase, and slipped her wildflowers in instead. Nikolas never actually told her if Arn liked the flowers. Manon certainly hoped he did.

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Spoiler

dont hug me im scared

 

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Pold watched.

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The ghostly apparition of Sigismund is ready to throw hands at whatever haunts his distant grandson whenever his stupid oracle son summons him again

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4 minutes ago, seannie said:

The ghostly apparition of Sigismund is ready to throw hands at whatever haunts his distant grandson whenever his stupid oracle son summons him again

"Hey dad," says Pold.

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