Twisted Crowns Ch. 00-02

Hello all-

Sorry for not really being up-to-date on all my other stories. Haven't really been in the mood much for sexy stuff as this story has literally been impeding my every thought. Like seriously, this is all I can think of and I have honestly lost sleep because I keep writing this in my head. It's crazy. So, I have decided to share what I've been working on with you all. Eventually I will be writing sequels to my stories but first, I need to scratch this itch. Anyways, COMPLETELY different from anything I've ever written as it's a little more light-hearted and fantastical.

Hopefully y'all enjoy. Please let me know what you think.

~E

PART ONE

The Girl from Another World

Prologue

The necromancer waved her arms about her.

She knew practicing this craft was forbidden, understood the consequences if she were to get caught. But she still practiced anyhow. She had to. She needed to.

Shadows crept around her body as she twisted this way and that. Her power grew as she mumbled the ancient words of witches past, the tongues used by her mothers and sisters before her. She had lived a simple life, once, before it was taken all away. She bore no family or children before; her happiness was just stolen from her in an act of pure greed.

Now, scorned and betrayed, she formed wisps of black smoke in the thick air and created mounds of dirt that transformed into unbreakable stone to form an impenetrable tower that rose high enough to kiss the dark clouds that encircled it. She flicked her fingers to send a wave of power that grew thorns to cover every inch of the dead grass. The trees around her were already barren as she sharpened their branches to catch any life that risked flying into her path. She wanted nothing living to be around her, to accompany her.

She would raise the dead and they would become her friends. They would ward off her enemies, keep her safe from those who wished to harm her.

As a child, she had loved all life: plants, flowers, trees, and animals. Now, an adult with nothing left to live for, she despised those things others would deem beautiful. It wasn't her fault; her hand was forced to do this, to live this way, to live this life of pain and torment. She was born this way, born to become a necromancer. It was in her blood.

With one last flick of her wrist form beneath her black cloak, she conjured up large spires to resemble spikes at the forefront of her tower in jagged patterns. A smirk played on her dry lips as she entered her new home and clapped her hands to raise more shadows from the ground. These were of humans and elves long ago lost to famine and war, their past lives leading to their inevitable demises. They were trapped in the afterlife and had nowhere else to go.

But they were now her guardians, risen up to protect her from anything that would dare harm her.

Chapter One

A Meeting of Old Friends

The Crying Eagle was a tavern, small but rather busy all the time.

It was located on the outskirts of the village Scurlocke in the eastern end of the territory named Edrein, the human lands. It was a quaint town full of thatched roof houses and small shops of old. Having been the first village settled in this region, many flocked to it for the history and quiet-like atmosphere. Often times, Scurlocke seemed to be a passersby fancy, a place that let in guests simply for the sake of visiting. Hence why the Crying Eagle tavern never slept.

All were welcome, especially the vagabonds and weary travelers, the ones who had no place to go. It was a safe haven for those who were seeking shelter from the elements and from their lives, with two upper stories kept for rooming and boarding. Bounty hunters usually gathered here but on this one such night, there were far more patrons than typical. For instance, a few forgotten warriors decided to meet on this particular day at this particular tavern. They were reuniting after years apart, swapping old tales of the glory days and how they'd won the War of the Two Halves.

One was much younger but still had fought in the battle. He was here to learn of some news that had been rapidly spreading like a wildfire. He waved his left hand that sported burn marks at a passing barhop for another round of aged ale who then nodded at the owner of the tavern.

Samith Hammershing was the barkeep, an ancient man having seen better days and times. He sported a long grey beard with matching hair that passed his shoulders. His once blue eyes had long since clouded over from age and the wrinkles deepened on his face. Samith had been in battle once, a battle that had caused him to lose his right leg that was replaced by a wooden imitation. He often limped due to the inaccuracy of the length of his wooden leg and sometimes due to the pain. His children rarely saw his grimaces as he would not allow them to see his weakness. He was weathered.

"Aye, Jonsit hear' it through Mikael and Mikael hear' it through a passing Elf. Thar be dark times ahea' of us, lads, I tell ye," the eldest of the bunch of warriors spoke up after sipping from his mug.

"Jonsit?" The second eldest questioned. "Can we trust a drunkard?" He guffawed after hiccupping.

"Takes one to know one!" The youngest eldest muttered.

The youngling sat quiet, brooding over what he'd just been told. He wasn't like any of these men. In fact, he was the only one of his kind seated at the round bar table. He had distanced himself from his people long ago and often would not allow those around him to see what he truly was. It's not that he was ashamed; no, he was just being cautious.

"Axel, my boy!" The eldest slapped him on the back, causing Axe to nearly spill his drink.

Axe despised being called by his given name and much preferred for those close to him to call him Axe. After all, that was his favored weapon of choice; a double-sided gilded axe with enchanted filigree in the middle. So aptly named Malicious Reaper, it sat near his right leg as he fingered one sharp edge, toying with the idea of challenging a mate to a sparring match.

Axe glared at the human, noting the scar that ran across his bushy, black brows, anointed to him by a sword to his face. His clear blue eyes were alight in the candle that flickered before him. Vigo Garivald was no older than half a century, with streaks of silver running through his dark wavy hair. He had been a commander once, captain even before he decided to protest against wars by standing his ground during a recent battle and stripping himself of his titles. He still dressed like a soldier with a thick, brown coat over matching fleece bottoms.

Now, he sat with old companions, having sustained life via head hunting, literally.

Matter of fact, they were all assassins or head hunters, sitting at this table.

Axel glanced around him, taking in the men that surrounded his company. Next to Vigo sat Ryker Headstrong, another man a little less aged than his half-brother, Vigo. Similar in appearance, Ryker's hair was lighter and shorter, contrasting greatly with his brown eyes. His voice was deeper and warmer and this often caused women to flock to him. His black shirt was typically kept open at his chest to reveal a tuft of blonde hair. This man was vain but skilled in his job. Once, he severed a target's head so cleanly, he barely left a blood trail.

Axel admired this man's handiwork.

Lastly, there sat Silvan Thorne, a Broslan with pale skin and sky colored eyes. His red hair was hidden beneath a tall hat, sometimes concealing his eyes. Broslans were humanoid creatures that were cold and calculated and drank blood for pleasure. Silvan rarely did the latter as he was always on the road and rarely had a free moment to dabble in such delicacies. His green duster swept the floor as he brought his boots up to rest his feet on the table.

Axe sighed. His companions had been speaking of a rumor of darkness that was inhabiting the most southern part of Asna, the land on which they resided. Supposedly trees were burning invisibly and the grass was aging to a grey color. The ground was brittle and, with each step, cracked beneath the lightest of weights. However, no one dared to venture there. It was almost as if this was a myth that had been implanted into one's mind and then repeated over and over again until it was to be believed.

Axe didn't believe such fallacies as there was nothing in his world that could cause something as "deadly" as this. Power ran through every being except for the humans and only the Elves could control the elements. Mages were the ones who kept this power in check on any living creature and Axe knew for certain that a mage would never convert due in part there hadn't been a Dark Mage in over a thousand years. Alas, what gains would a mage get in turning?

It was forbidden in Asna.

Still a chance, sure, about a Dark Mage but he would have been unearthed right about now if he dares.

There was security at every border, no matter how one crossed, that prevented such atrocities. Unseen forces that detected darkness in magic. Even with the king in Ieslal, the Broslans' homeland, he had established massive towers to keep those not welcome at bay.

Asna was a well protected land and Axe had been to every inch of it. He knew that there had to be some sort of mistake. But what if-

"King Cassius has his walls protecting Ieslal so there ain't no way the Darkness could get into his kingdom," Silvan muttered. "Top that with him forbidding magic, Ielsal can't be a part of the problem."

"Aye, but wha' abou' 'is father?" Vigo asked, leaning forward.

"What about him?"

"Didn't his power drive him mad?" Ryker was the one to ask the question this time.

Silvan waved a hand. "King Cassius doesn't use his magic so we know he won't be turning mad."

Axe listened to them and thought about what would happen if the Broslan king became sick with power. It was, after all, a family trait to suddenly go mad and destroy everything you loved. King Cassius had sworn to banish magic in his kingdom and kept a close eye on his subjects who held power. Broslans only sported magic if they were noble for they were pure of blood. The tainting and mixing of bloods allowed for a diluted pool of power therefore, nixing it almost completely in a Broslan not born with noble blood.

"Axel, you're awfully quie' this evenin'," Vigo pointed out, slapping a hand on the table.

Axe cut his eyes to Vigo, a man once a friend of his father's years ago. Vigo had protected him when he was a child. Now, grown, Axe relied on the man more for company than for necessity.

"It's foolish to speak of such nonsense."

Being the youngest, Axe felt as if he were the wisest out of the four. He knew better than to add fuel to the fire.

"Aye but it's true! If this news came from Jonsit and Mikael, we know it cannot be false even if they are a drunk bunch," Ryker piped in. Ryker was known to be the knowledgeable one out of his brother. Having been raised in the castle of Edrein, Ryker had taken studies only those more privileged could receive.

Unfortunately for Vigo, his mother had been a stablewoman in Higginbotham, a town three days east of Scurlocke. He was taught by his uncle who was notoriously known for crushing and inhaling flatlifs to ease his troubled mind. But an education is an education nonetheless and Vigo still sported a worthy vocabulary on top of intense warrior skills.

Vigo and Ryker had the same father but two different mothers. As mentioned above, Vigo's mother was a poor stablewoman. Ryker's mother had been a cousin to the king of Edrein so that made him noble. However, Ryker stripped himself of his title once he found his long-lost half-brother didn't have the same advantages as he. How the two came into contact, Axe never knew for he either didn't care or didn't ask.

Axe stood and adjusted the scarf that cloaked his face and let it drape over his broad shoulders. He kept the dark piece of cloth around his mouth and ears, over his hair for various reasons. And for the same reason he wore an eye patch over his left eye; to mask the features others would deem recognizable.

He was growing weary of this conversation and wanted nothing more of fancies that were not true. He was about to bid his companions a farewell when suddenly, the tavern shook violently, nearly casting him off of his feet. Axe gripped the bar table to keep himself steady when a great flash of lightening lit up the entire room form outside the window.

The entire tavern grew quiet for just a moment before it erupted into excited and nervous chatter.

"What was that?" One patron shouted while another cursed loudly.

Yes, what was that? he thought to himself as he opened the tavern door, being the only one brave enough to do so.

He looked out onto the empty road before the Crying Eagle and didn't notice anything. He glanced first to the left and then to the right but still, nothing seemed out of place on this cold night. With a look of consternation, Axe squinted his eyes, almost as if he was trying to make something appear of out nothing, and closed the tavern door.

The night wore on without anymore ground or tavern shaking occurrences.

Chapter Two

And Through The Doorway We Stumble

"This can't be right."

A.J. looked at the picture in her hand before glancing back up at the house she stood before. An old family heirloom, the house had been all but abandoned and was nearly decrepit with flaking paint on the wooden slides, dirty windows, and peeling roof tiles. She was confused at how this could have happened.

She tucked the twenty-year old picture into her black leather jacket and adjusted her messenger bag on her shoulder. It had been some years since she was last here, perhaps when she was but a wee toddler. Now, an adult at the tender age of twenty-five, she wracked her brain for any sort of memory of this place. It was her grandmother's for the time being until she passed and the home would become A.J.'s.

A once grand Victorian-era styled home with white paint and dark green accents was all that was left in her family save for her grandmother on her mother's side.

"Well," she clasped her hands before her and smacked her lips, "here goes nothing."

She was here to visit her grandmother, Eleanora Remington, a lady in her eighties with a fading memory. With her mother in the ground and her father not around, A.J. felt the need to come see the ancient woman before her time was up. Of course she felt bad that no one ever came to visit the poor old lady but that was entirely Eleanora's fault as she drove anyone and everyone away with her strange stories of other worlds and odd creatures. Quite clearly that was just her age showing as she became more demented with the years.

A.J. climbed the weathered stairs and nearly lost a foot on the third step as the wood gave beneath her. She quickly gripped the railing that almost broke as her hand swung outward.

"Jesus," she murmured.

Ever since her mother passed away, there was no one available to keep up the house as her uncle lived too far away and her grandfather was no longer living. All her other male relatives either didn't bother or were too busy.

Therefore, it was up to A.J. to do something about her ailing grandmother.

The sounds of the city dissipated the moment she stepped foot in the old house. Once inside the creaking doorway, A.J. tripped on a pile of mail that was towering above the mail slot. She bent down to pick up the oldest letter and noted the date for eight months ago. She chewed on her bottom lip before she leaned over and grabbed the mail.

Carrying the postage in her hands, she found her way to the kitchen that sat off the den in the back. She set her messenger bag down on the counter and rifled through the mail, making sure to not pass up any bills. There were a few late notices about the hospital stay she underwent a couple years back but that was about it. The house had been paid off for several years now and her grandmother didn't own any vehicles. The electricity was taken out of her social security fund and Eleanora even had a worker that provided all of her shopping for her.

With a heavy sigh, A.J. decided to search for her grandmother. She sought out the stairs and her combat boots echoed on the wooden steps as she crept up them, stopping on the landing to admire a family portrait.

It was of her grandmother, mother, and A.J. when she was a small child. Her mother's honey brown eyes, which she inherited, stared back at her with a sad countenance. Emily Remington's pitch black hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft waves and showcased her pale features. She wore little makeup and had the biggest grin as she held her daughter in her arms, her natural dark red hair curling around her plump cheeks as A.J. rarely ever sat still. Eleanora's stern expression indicated how annoyed she appeared to be as the painter caught her sneer at just the right moment, her silver hair in a high bun and cold blue eyes severe. Her brother wasn't in this portrait as this was a girls' day when it was painted.

A pain struck A.J.'s hurt at that moment.

She missed her mother terribly and hated how alone she felt now that her mother was gone. It was tough being a young adult with no parents to turn to. Add that A.J. was a bit of a loner so she rarely had any friends she could converse with. She never saw her brother as he was always too busy with his work and practically took off the moment their mother passed.

Sighing again and wiping away the tears that threatened to fall, A.J. turned and proceeded to climb the stairs once more, passing by old family photos in black and white and a few newer ones. One was of her brother, Soren, the day he graduated from college. He had his arm around A.J. who was still in high school then, and the other around their mother who was crying with tears of joy. Their grandmother was hardly around but she was there for this day.

And that was the last A.J. saw of Eleanora on top of this photo being the last taken of her mother alive.

Finally making it to the top, A.J. stood before a lengthy hallway with six doors, three on each side. She guessed her grandmother occupied the master and decided to head to the only open door which was at the end of the hall.

Proving to be correct, she stood in the doorway and just watched her grandmother's sleeping form. She eyed the machines that were hooked to her and heard the constant beeping of a heart monitor. Eleanora was fast asleep on a large hospital bed, her flowery gown wrinkled as she laid on her back.

"Eleanora?" A.J. called.

Maybe a little disrespectful but her grandmother was hardly in her life and A.J. had never called her anything else. She wasn't sure of what to call her, honestly. Grandma? Grandmother? Nana? What exactly would she be considered being she chose to not really be in her grandchildren's lives.

"Eleanora?" She tried again and stepped closer.

Her grandmother didn't move. Instead, her chest rose and fell softly, her breathing nice and even. She was alive, thankfully, just in deep slumber. A.J. walked up to her bed and stared down at the woman. Her silver hair was splayed out over her pillow, nearly hanging off with how long it was. Her light blue eyes were closed, her long lashes casting a slight shadow over her sunken cheeks. Veins etched her forehead below her sallow skin, giving her an ethereal look.

She seemed peaceful and A.J. thought it best not to disturb and closed the bedroom door, leaving her grandmother to her dreams.

Instead, she elected to go exploring instead.