I try and try and try and I can never get the full swing of fantasy. So I'm trying again. So far, I think it's turned out pretty good. This doesn't have a name quite yet, but yeah. Zekyll is just temporary. This is the prologue. It's a bit goofy with my character, but I like it like that.
Oh yeah. And if any of you guys have read StoweAway, I stole the name Zekyll because it's freaking awesome. Yeah. Here you go.
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A Prologue of Misfortunes, Death, and Gray Hairs
In a cell for all time and eternity, or so it felt like, Zekyll licked his parched lips. The bars were close around him, almost strangling him, it seemed. They formed a constricted barrier between the world and his life, and quite often they would threaten to close out all of the light. All of the happiness. All of the hope.
But then again, thought Zekyll, I’m only in here for a little while longer. Forever shan’t take that long, will it? After all, how powerful is Verdine anywho? Bargaining our lives; it’s just a daily routine! We hear about it all the time. “Monstrous Villain Threatens to Take Over the World!” It shan’t take too long, now, before I’m released. Just a little longer…a little longer… just a little while…
In the shadowy darkness, Zekyll rested his head on his rough hands. His tattered rags that were loaned to him were torn. His beard had grown longer than it had ever been, and to his surprise, he had found a couple gray hairs hiding behind his brown ones.
I’m not getting old; I can’t be. I’m but a few years younger than dust! He had thought when he had discovered the unconformities.
A shadow walked past his cell, and Zekyll’s eyes followed it. The figured stopped abruptly midway between Zekyll’s cell and the old peasant, Sir What’s-His-Face’s. He stood there for a moment, as if reckoning where he was. The man was tall and lanky, and held a sword at his side. Zekyll noticed that his chest rarely ever moved; it was as if he didn’t breathe. How strange!
After another moment or two, another shadow crept up behind the first man. The second man tapped the first on the shoulder, and their eyes met.
“What did you call me for, at this late hour?” the first shadow whispered. Zekyll bit his lip so that he would remain quiet. Whatever they were discussing just had to be important. And then, the next morning, he would be able to boast that he had overheard Verdine’s plans! At last! Some attention! Zekyll held his breath.
“It’s Braythe Muntau,” the second figure replied quietly and deliberately. “They say that he is coming.”
“Hush!” the first man whispered fiercely. “We shan’t have you waking up the pris’ners. Now tell me, who told you this?” There was a moment’s silence.
“Porflette. He said that he had spied over the –”
“Hush! Don’t talk so loud!”
“Sorry, Sire. Porflette told me that he had seen Muntau riding over the mountains. Headed right this way!”
Another moment’s silence.
“But… but why would Muntau come here? We’ve nothing here but pris’ners and – oh. He’s come for her, right?” Zekyll could almost taste the fear in the man’s hushed voice.
“Indeed, sire. We fear that is the case.”
“And? What are we going to do about it? Are we going to hide Lady Viniette away?”
Zekyll quickly gasped for breath, for he had been holding it for such a time that his face had turned red. The two men had noticed and turned away from him.
“We don’t know. Y’din wants your opinion. Well… he wants everyone’s opinion so that he doesn’t look like a complete fool when he acts… oh, I shouldn’t be talking foul about Sire Y’din….”
“Let’s talk more outside. I fear the pris’ners will overhear. Lead the way, Badin.” Both of the figures glided across the musty floor. Zekyll caught a glimpse at the Sire’s sword as it glinted in the only light available. It was narrow, long, and perfectly smooth. It had been rumored that the Sire’s sword was used for the executions…
Zekyll shivered.
#
“Wake up you worthless scum. There be work to be done!”
Zekyll’s left eye opened slightly. He should be used to the normal wake-up cry. It was heard every morning, at the exact time. He watched other inmates struggle to conquer their drowsiness and shook themselves awake. Sir What’s-His-Face, next cell over, felt the same as Zekyll. He could always wake up later…
“Get up!” Sol, another inmate that was very fond of What’s-His-Face, whispered, and rapped his fingers against his friend’s metal cell. “Hurry, before Y’din comes. You know what’ll happen. He’ll tear your throat out, and eat it. At least, that’s what they say…”
What’s-His-Face didn’t reply. Zekyll raised his eyebrow at the old man. He slid out of his cot and stuck his legs through his leggings.
He still didn’t move. He was completely motionless. What a fool! If Y’din, or any other soldiers found out, Zekyll knew, he’d be in for a whipping.
“Alright, now you’re just being obnoxious. Get up, Pran! Hurry!” Sol said, rapping furiously. There was a desperate plea in his voice, and Zekyll could feel it. Why wasn’t – Pran? That was his name? Zekyll knew that it was something strange sounding. Why wasn’t Pran getting ready for the day’s work?
“Line!”
Zekyll’s heart jumped as he heard the terrifying roar of Y’din, the commander of the prison. He crawled into his tunic and at last approached the front end of his cell. As he gripped the bars, a chill crept up his spine.
Y’din held his sword in his hand and was marching down the isle of cells, eyeing each prisoner. As the large man approached Zekyll, his cold gray eyes pierced him. They were clouded – mysterious, even. Zekyll, even after being held captive for three months, still couldn’t bear to stare into those eyes. There was something about them that was indescribable. So terrifying, and yet so distressed.
“Look at me, scum.”
Zekyll’s eyes fought back. It was a war - to resist a direct order. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly look into those eyes.
“I said, look at me scum!” Y’din tapped his sword against Zekyll’s cell. Struggling, using all of his will power, Zekyll managed to leave his eyes below the man’s waist.
“Are you looking for a death sentence?”
“No, Sire.”
“Then look at me, you god forbidding creature. Look at me!”
The war was lost. Zekyll guiltily raised his eyes into Y’din’s. There was a momentary shock as a cold wind swept past him. Those eyes… what was wrong with his eyes? Those shallow, gray eyes…
“Next time follow your orders.” Y’din stared into Zekyll’s eyes for a moment longer, and then carried on, inspecting each cell.
“Where is prisoner 6408?” Y’din snapped. Zekyll’s heart dropped as he realized that Pran was still asleep. How was that even humanely possible, to be asleep in Y’din’s presence?
“You, there. Wake up, you filthy creature! You shall not get away with a crime such as this. You will be hung, you will.” After those words, Y’din searched his clothing for the set of keys. Zekyll knew that every prisoner’s eyes were watching the keys, wanting them anxiously.
Y’din unlocked Pran’s cell. He strode over to the man and rapped him fiercely with his sword. Pran didn’t move.
“He’s dead.” The words echoed throughout the silent prison. “The bloody man is dead.” Y’din turned back and yelled to his assistant, “Badin, come and clean this filth up. We now have room for yet another prisoner.”
Zekyll watched the whole process as a man hesitantly walked up to the dead man. Badin was wearing a cross on a chain around his neck, and the jewelry swung around as he wrapped Pran in his bedding. This man was the priest at the prison – Y’din had mentioned that they were lucky to have a holy man of God at hand. He had said that the sinners needed to repent, but even then, God couldn’t save them from their doomed fate. Or something like that.
After Badin had taken Pran out of the cell and disposed of the body, Y’din resumed his inspection, yelling at the inmates and scolding them for even the slightest mistake. When he reached the end of the room, he turned around and came back to the door, where Badin waited earnestly.
“Put them to work. They need to work of some of that fat that they’ve been storing. Shattering stones should do the trick. No baths tonight,” Y’din said, and then raised his voice, “nor any for the rest of the week. You need to learn to keep yourselves clean. Filthy scum.”
With that final, uplifting note, he left the prison, and Badin was left alone with the other twelve – or eleven now, Zekyll thought, prisoners.
“You heard what he said. And you all know what to do. Get to work. If I see any one of you slacking on your duty, you shall be severely punished.” The man’s voice was faulty. All of the inmates knew that he couldn’t force them to do anything. A lonely priest. Bah. Pathetic.
But Y’din was watching. And when he was watching they had to work. They had to work or they would be killed.
As they left their cells, Zekyll thought that it would be better to go in his sleep, like Pran had. He was pretty clever, that What’s-His-Face. He knew what he was doing. He knew how to be saved from this hell.
I would 
