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We continue the story from last week. Soon I will have the small chapters ordered and refreshed in my library.
Kingdom of Crestoria! 19
The following hours Duncan was degraded to a image that took to much space and polluted the space with his breath when ever he got close to the princess. Her eyes divert to an empty corner of the room as long as she would not have to stare into his puppy eyes.
His face all droopy and questioning whether or not he should open his mouth. Be a man and start the conversation. True that the princess does have a temper but to become this childish after an accident was beyond comprehension.
If anything it was Grub who tried to cheer up the princess by talking something along the line that Duncan had just been lucky, and was nothing more than a moron who could not even hold a sword properly.
Still it did not move the princess to say anything back. Instead she just walked out of there.
As if by chance the queen walked in without a word she let her daughter pass. At the sight of her almighty even Grub picked up himself and walked out. Sneering something behind closed lips.
It was the queen who just waved her hand as to wipe a speck of dust that fluttered in mid air within her view.
“Hero, it seems luck is on your side. As for fighting, well one could not even call it an attempt. So if anything, you better get ready we, and I do mean YOU will be departing in soon. So get some gear from the smithy. God safe us all.”
With a pious stride she left as she came. With the exception to let out some remark and a deep sigh. “To think it is in his hands now.”
Duncan who sat motionless on the bench was overwhelmed by her presence and the fact the princess had not said a single word since the fight ended. Under no circumstances was he able to figure out how to act or even what to say. He just listened and shook his head soon as he was left alone.
In his mind two words were flying around in a frantic manner. ‘Smithy, Gear…’
“Wait, what… Where?”
He woke from his flustered state and stood up shouting to no one in particular as he was the last one in the dressing room. The smelly air he inhaled with a deep breath was made out of was a mouldy mix of sweat and rusting iron.
With a large swing he swung his hands onto his cheeks. The slap was loud and coloured his face with two red hands. It was hard enough to have slapped some sense in his frightened body and move out the door out and take a left turn away from the arena.
After a few minutes of wandering around the hallways, peeks around corners of door openings he finally found what looked like a smithy. A scorching heat brushed up against his skin as he had his face exposed through the small gap. His eyes saw a most beautiful sight as metal hit the red hot metal on the anvil.
To be continued…
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Ranting Crow 