This is Chapter Three of my story, but it's beginning of one thread of the story, so I suppose it supports a beginning-like taste to it anyway. I just want to know if the Percy character has clear motives.
Victor Lunkil did not appreciate late night calls. His rest was always highly deserved by the end of his long, hard-working days, in which he walked across Dakr’s City from monotonous appointment to monotonous appointment, tediously wearing down his extensive list of things to do. Usually when a business owner or some other contract dealer, legal or not, rapped upon his door, they received a horrible bout of whatever he could serve them. It did not matter how important the caller was, nor whether Lunkil was awake or not – he needed an outlet for his anger, and pressing on his already heavily loaded stress was not a wise thing to do.
It was past midnight when the caller knocked on the door. Lunkil was sitting in a chair by the fire, staring into the flames, when he first heard the rapping. While grumbling, he scooped up a metal staff perched on the side of the armchair. He walked downstairs steadily, the steady three-beat waltz growing menacingly louder to the caller who, foolishly, knocked again.
The staff that Lunkil carried was legendary. The entire thing was constructed of a thick and heavy alloy that involved strong metals such as steel and iron. It was gilded with white gold and was carved in the shape of a stick-straight snake, each scale perfectly engraved. At the very top, the maw of the serpent was opening wide, from which a metal tongue protruded, wrapping and supporting a shimmering ball that was a decidedly dead color, much like stone. But the staff’s history was more impressive than its appearance – it had belonged to a great warlord of the past, who had been locked in the Great Dungeons. When the warlord faded away, their King retrieved his staffs, embedded with deep magical power, and distributed them among his trusted advisors, keeping one for him. Lunkil was one such lucky man.
He had reached the door and, now, slammed down his staff harshly on the stone tiled floor, which ignited a purple spark within its depths. It sparkled and swirled in the confinements of the stone, which was now as clear as glass. Satisfied, Lunkil flung wide the door.
The caller looked down on Lunkil with a mane of golden blond hair, which he, in a suiting manner, flicked in the wild air that curved through the city. The man was grinning broadly at first, but nearly fell off the front step in seeing the purple luminescence off of Lunkil’s face, and then first noticed that the high official looked displeased.
Lunkil was, in fact, disappointed. “Yes, Percy?” he asked coolly. The young man looked taken aback and did not respond at first. His eyes darted from the glowing staff to the pale, scarred face of his superior, who had white scars across his cheeks and angel-white pieces of hair falling in his eyes. Though seemingly young at barely twenty five, Lunkil was, in reality, fifty, and had climbed very high in many ladders in life. Of those, magic was included.
“Ah…yes…Duke Lunkil, my lord, the King requires you immediately,” Percy said, recovering. He bore a sword at his side and his hand was marked with an inked tattoo that signed him in eternal service as a High Guard to the King. Still, he stepped aside to allow Lunkil to brush passed him.
“Then I shan’t keep my king waiting,” Lunkil announced. Then, eyes slitted, he turned to Percy, who, he just realized, was trying to catch his breath. The ties on his uniform were, also, incorrect and rushed.
The superior, clothed rich gray and black robes, had eyes glinting with suspicion. He surveyed Percy, the Guard, for a few second before hissing, “My king. He is all our King, is he not, Knight Percival?”
Percy nodded stiffly. “Aye aye, sir,” he chimed, his voice ringing with arrogance.
The Duke merely smiled and strode off into the night. His staff clomped along beside him, and Percy only clamped his hand over his heart when he was sure that the loyal official had left his sight. He knew.
