[spoiler]this is a series where I spin my dreams into short stories. For the sake of storytelling some elements are fabricated but for the most part, this is what I experienced[/spoiler] King Lionel Ruth died in the year XX17. Sensing his imminent peril, he did not go comfortably in his bed. With the assistance of a few complacent squires, he escaped his own castle and traversed up the Horned Mountains to the frozen city of Soutte. There, he curled up beneath a bridge on the waterfront, wrote his final words, and died peacefully. There was no warning for his death. No signs of decay or madness. King Lionel was 66. He had no wife or children. No nephews, nieces, brothers or sisters. Lionel wasn’t even born a nobleman. He was named heir by another lonely king for reasons unknown to the public. He grew up in Soutte as a street rat, with a beggar mother who never cared for him a day in his life. As a young king he busied himself with appreciating the the extravagant lifestyle allowed to a noble. For years, the four cities of the kingdom of Rawn were neglected and fell into deep poverty. Lionel seized the plentiful orchards of Garthish to build his royal garden lounge amidst the highly profitable fruits. Lionel ended the manufacturing of fine Ulridian weaponry in his baseless quest to dispel animosity within the cities, furthermore placing a permanent ban on swords. Lionel halted the selling of silks from Tage and even the humble woven goods from Soutte, which he claimed were far too luxurious to share with undeserving outsiders. All this froze trade between Rawn and its allied neighbors. Lionel was of gentle heart, but lacked every ounce of good sense necessary to be king. He was pained witnessing the suffering of his subjects, yet wholly unaware that he was to blame for such hardships. He paraded the streets of Tage, Garthish and Ulridia, showering children with gifts of the resources he took from their families. And rather than trade these goods with neighboring kingdoms, he hosted extravagant parties, forged personal bonds with nobles who favored him for his charm and generosity, and indulged in his favorite hobby: collecting paintings. His materialistic lifestyle, funded by his dying kingdom, produced the most impressive private collection the world has ever seen. By the end of his pitiful reign, his collection was worth far more than the kingdom itself. Every living thing across the four cities knew of his habit. The outrage was never loud enough for him to hear. The population was dwindling by the second, the children were eating their dogs to survive, and the king builds gilded frames to hang on a wall in the kitchen. The death of Lionel Ruth was shocking, but not unwelcome. Caught up in his lavish pastimes, he had never married or produced an heir. There was no child next in line to take after the foolish king. The king was content to be alone and his birthline unsecured. But how strange that in his dying moments, Lionel climbed a mountain on foot to his birthplace city and his most neglected people, only to die purposefully unseen under a bridge, clutching his final decree. In continuity with his wretched rule, that final decree sparked outrage. In his scrawled hand it read: [i]“I am cold, I am tired, I am dying. I pray only that I will not be missed. I am returned to Soutte, my true home, though I had not the mind to venture here since my departure. The snow is more beautiful than a painting. To Soutte, beloved, I gift to the head of every house one piece of my collection. A painting most prized, to place above your hearth. I only wish that you might look beyond value in favor of the unequal splendor. This most hidden city will hold my legacy in silence. King Lionel Ruth, The First And Last” [/i] Soutte, a most isolated mountain city with frozen trade and dwindling supplies, had received the gift of hundreds of priceless paintings that could not be sold. For months the paintings were tediously delivered through the Horned Mountains, and distributed at random to the poor souls doomed to starve with their salvation hanging worthlessly above their heads. More than half of the grand paintings could not fit within the cramped houses of the city residents. Some families took their paintings and set out on foot, praying it was worth enough to scratch out a new life beyond the reaches of Rawn. Many were burned in protest of this insulting gift, but their anger quickly turned to confusion when the extravagant wooden frames burned away to reveal the missing blades of Ulridia. The slender swords were thought to be destroyed decades ago, and now every man in the city held two in his hands. I was right there, standing in the city center, watching the pile burn and burn, and the angered crowd shout curses at the kingsmen when a sword clattered to the ground in front of me. The noise stunned hundreds. I didn’t react, I turned and walked home to rip my painting of a summers day off the wall and smash open the hollow frame. Two perfect blades hidden within, and a handwritten scroll around each hilt. [i]“They are weakened, and I am dead. Save Soutte, take Ulridia.” [/i]