[h3][center]Halbuhr Castle, Eodaland[/center][/h3]

[b]Night[/b]. Tomorrow is the young Prince’s sixteenth birthday, though he doesn’t know how to feel about it. On the one hand, there will doubtlessly be a royal jubilation, apple pie, and he’ll see his mother after seven long months of unofficial exile at Halbuhr. On the other, he will be forced to watch his uncle sit on the throne his mighty father once reigned from. 
...The grotesque King Badastan, sitting on his father’s throne, the thought disturbed and deflated the Prince. And something tells him that he’s not keen on leaving it. Alric has had months to accept that his uncle’s election at Cantaware will no sooner be overturned and his birthright restored than the likelihood his father will triumphantly return from the dead and lift his people from Badastan’s rule. His birthday celebrations would be a reminder of this fact and despair gripped Alric tight. 
The first month was easy. Badastan had been King a mere four months and Alric’s godfather, Ine the Black, spent a great deal of time in Cantaware, writing back to Halburh of rumours a court faction was keen to restore Aethelbehrt’s lineage to the throne. Now however, it seemed as though Badastan’s position has become more solid than ever and the Prince’s hope is gone. 

Alric’s mind began to slow and soon he dozed off. He dreamt of sailing.The fresh breeze of the sea. The gulls calling over the tranquil waves, until vanishing into the blackness ahead. Alric then found himself alone in that endless sea of black ink. ...A violent storm was whipped up from one second to the next. A storm, equally black as the inken ocean. A terrible hail pelting down on his red cheeks. A thick dark vapor filling the sky and blotting out all light.

The storm’s wind carried a voice -- a woman’s voice, kind, but sternly spoken. And it is speaking to him. [i]‘’Black...- Grim…- Oppressive…- Dismay!’’[/i] This is all he can discern. Though what little he understood through the ink tempest was rather foreboding. It sounds like someone’s trying to warn him of something.

Alric cries out into the blackness. [i]‘’What are you saying?!’’[/i]

And the voice of the wind replies. [i]‘’Overcome this Black tide. Though your future is one of Grim deeds. Though your future is one of Oppressive tyranny. Do not… be Dismayed!’’[/i] A dark spectre floats above the waves before his small vessel.  
[i]‘’What? What are you talking about!?’’[/i]  
The voice, now distressed, continues. [i]‘’You have to wake up! They’re coming for you! Get out to sea! 
You have allies in this fight! Awake! Wake! Wa-’’[/i] It abruptly fades out as the poignant dark mists subsumes all the world around him.

Alric jumps wide awake, horrified, all sweaty. He hears the creaking of the stairs and in an act of sheer instinct leaps from his bed. Swiftly climbing into yesterday’s tunic and trousers, he heads to the window and launches himself onto the branch of a great oak growing outside his bedroom. Alric, still half asleep and in a panicked daze, struggles to navigate down the branches in the pitch dark and his foot slips. He falls onto the grass spraining his ankle, and it feels like he even broke a rib. Run now, worry later. With adrenaline flowing through him he held onto his torso and moved as fast as he could to the deserted stables, passing an unknown brown steed that whinnied as he passed. Alric clambered onto his white steed and held tight, with no saddle nor reins the ride was difficult and exhausting but he rode nevertheless.

The Prince rode for as long as he could but his injuries made it painful and the pain drained him of all energy. Eventually the Prince slipped, tumbling at great speed to the ground, knocking him out.