The Kingdom of Fire and Chaos 

Neil W. Peterson 

 
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Table of Contents 

1. To Be Where the Wind Was Blowing………………………………………………………...1 

2. The Coronation……………………………………………………………………………….2 

3. The Crow Has Left Me to Die………………………………………………………………..3 

4. The Candle in the Dark………………………………………………………………………,5 

5. The Twilight Age……………………………………………………………………………..9 

6. The Gargoyle of Castle Royce……………………………………………………………….10 

 
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To Be Where the Wind Was Blowing 

How lovely it would be, ​he thought, ​to be where the wind was blowing.​ The old drinking song 

came back to him through years of shipwright servitude and living on the seas. The old song came 

back to him, but would not pass his chapped and sunburnt lips. He laid on the rocks and hummed it 

softly to himself. ​How lovely it would be, to be where the wind was blowing. ​The water lapped at his 

feet, ready to engulf the rocky spire he found himself on. ​How lovely it would be, to blow us to an 

island.​ He’d spent days on a lifeboat after the sinking of the ship, but this morning he’d seen the 

rocks. ​Away from the dangers, and into the starry port. ​The captain always did well to avoid this 

stretch of sea, as did all other sane captains. The rocks were close beneath the choppy surface of the 

waters, and claimed any a ship who sailed too close. Including lifeboats. ​How lovely it would be, but 

​ fter his boat had been shattered on the rocks, he’d spent what little 
instead we’re stuck a-rowing. A

strength he’d had left swimming to the biggest outcropping. Now he laid on the hot stone, and baked 

in the sun while hoping a ship would sail by, knowing deep inside that none would. The tide began to 

rise. 

How lovely it would be, t​ he waters whispered in his ears, ​to be where the wind was blowing. 

It felt good as it rose above his burnt ankles. ​How lovely it would be, ​now the fish swimming deep 

below joined in, ​to blow us to an island.​ The sun beamed down at him, smiling with bright, wide, 

​ he withered man laughed and sang out 

yellow-stained teeth, it sang too-​Away from the dangers. T

loud- ​And into the starry port. ​Now, crabs began to come out from tiny caves on the rocky spire, 

clicking to the beat and singing the song, pinching his leathery skin every so often. ​How lovely it 

​ he salt washed in and out of his wounds.​ But instead we’re stuck a-rowing. H
would be. T ​ e let himself 

float in the water, and felt only the beautiful sky kissing him goodnight. 

How lovely it would be... 

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The Coronation 

The Prince had shown such great promise. He had the intelligence and compassion of his 

mother, and the strategy and wit of his father. He vowed to slay the Winged Devil of the West, and 

return peace to the land. All that he needed now was the crown, to be given to him at 20th celebration 

of his birth. 

Given it was, for now he would never take it off, the Winged Devil of the West had seen to 

that. As the ancient metal ring was laid atop his fair curls, the gold and black wings spread out before 

him and his fate was sealed.  

He still wore the crown now, and would for all eternity. For the heat of the dragonfire had 

melted the metal into the bone, a Skeleton-King of a Skeleton Kingdom. 

 
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The Crow Has Left Me to Die 

SCRAW SCRAW. 

The Crow flew into my eyes. 

SCRAW SCRAW. 

He knew my thoughts. 

SCRAW SCRAW SCRAW. 

The Crow began to whisper and I strained to listen. 

SCRAW. 

He has seen my dreams and hisses in the dark. 

SCRAWW SCRAWW 

I cover my ears and promise myself that animals can’t talk. 

SCRAW SCRAW 

I feel talons on my skin, and a beak rooting in my heart. 

SCRAWW SCRAWW 

The Crow has left me to die. 

 
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The Candle in the Dark 

He could only watch as black smoke poured out of the roof of his home. “Hurry,” he thought, 

“hurry out of there.” 

The old innkeeper thought back on what started all of this. The reason behind why there was 

such strife in the land as of late, why it was dangerous to travel the roads of the kingdom at night, and 

why he was standing- with his baby son in his arms- on one of those dangerous roads, watching their 

inn burn to the ground.  

He thought back to when the rowdy party had entered his inn. A group of knights and 

highborn lords, clad in gallant armour and foolish finery, respectively, parading across the land. They 

were returning home from a great battle, celebrating their apparent victory. The innkeeper had been 

careful to congratulate them when they brought their tidings of the battle to his ears. 

The smoke now seeped from the roof itself, finding cracks and holes too tiny for even mice to 

crawl through. It rose into the air like a black dragon swimming toward the moon. A small shape 

crept past the window upstairs. 

The country was engulfed in civil war. A puppet-king sat the throne, while a corrupt council 

ruled behind his back. Taxation was running the common people into poverty. They produced what 

small crops they could, and the crown took 8 out of every 10 shares of it. This left the smallfolk with 

far too little food to support themselves. To make up for the shortage, more and more honest men 

were turning to thievery to provide for him and his own. The roads ran rampant with outlaws looking 

for anyone with something worth taking, while his royal highness looked languidly in the other 

direction. The so called Protector of the Realm made no moves to quell the chaos his Kingdom was 

descending into. 

Then, the rebellion began. 

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Somewhere far to the south, the commonmen grew tired of the lax and unjust methods of the 

King, and took it upon themselves to reconcile his faults. With the help of his fellow commonmen, a 

simple man of low birth laid claim to the throne. Although the Crown struck back at the rebellion 

with trained soldiers and superior tactics, the Farmer King- as he had grown to be called- had the 

greater numbers, and the one thing the crown would never muster: the support of the people. 

The second story of the inn shown like a candle in the night. Fire licked and spit up and out 

of the spot where the roof had once been. Orange flames could be seen through all the windows on 

the second floor, while sounds of celebration could still be heard from the first. “Do not dawdle,” He 

thought. “Don’t be a fool like your brother.” 

Some lesser lords and landed knights flocked to the Capitol to prove their loyalty to the King, 

in hopes of filling their purse with royal gold when the rebellion was all said and done. But they did 

not crush the peasants as expected. Through unchivalrous tactics, the support of a lesser lord, and 

shear numbers, the mass of common folk took the column of the first army unawares, and crushed 

them.  

The Farmer King was the first opposition to the crown in centuries. The first hope for the 

common men and women of the Kingdom in years. The Farmer represented a real threat to the 

Puppet and his council of puppeteers. After knowing this would take more than a few hedge-knights, 

the Crown called the kingdom to arms, and the War of the Peasants began. 

The countryside was burned and crops were destroyed. Innocent men were killed in their 

homes, in front of their families, whether they were rebels or not. The stench of death hung in the air 

like a corpse from the gallows, and the only creatures with full bellies were the crows picking the 

dead clean. 
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The old man had been lucky enough to have an inn just outside the Capitol. Larger than most, 

and well-stocked due to the trade routes. They had been, as yet, untouched by the war. Untouched, 

save for the loss of the innkeeps oldest son. The city guard had pulled him from his home to fight in 

the name of the King. He had not been gone for a full moons turn before he was struck down. 

In payment for his son’s life, the Crown gave the old-man a barrel of sour whiskey.  

The fire crackled and popped now, almost as audible as the noise from the first level. It was 

no longer celebration, but now a mix of noises. There was shouting, but it was indecipherable if it 

was out of glee and drunk humor, or a growing realization of something wrong. This time the 

innkeeper looked up instead of at the building in front of him. “Please, for all that is holy, do not take 

another one.” 

The battle that had cost his son his life had been a great victory for the puppet King, and a 

great matter of grief for the innkeeper. They had caught the Farmer King’s men in transit, 

surrounding them and pressing down on both sides. The Farmers, without armour and weary from 

travel, stood not a chance. The Lords and Knights cut them down like live stock from atop their 

horses. News of the massacre had spread like wildfire throughout the land, as the winning lords 

laughed their way back to the Capitol. All the way back to the inn they sat and laughed in now.  

This envoy of Crown-Men had delivered the keg that was supposed to pay for his son’s life, 

and then went on to drink most of it throughout the night. They laughed and shouted in the common 

room, calling for more meat and mead for everyone in the hall to “honour the great battle.” Their 

laughter had given way to hiccups and back into laughter again, as they danced while the innkeeper's 

family mourned. They raised toasts to the King, and pledged to crush any rebel peasants who tried to 

even look at the Capitol. They talked and toasted, and laughed, each one boasting and telling ribald 
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tales of the field of battle. They bragged of the number of men they had struck the life out of. They 

drank and drank and drank. 

The fire finally drank up the first story. The floor of the second level gave way with “poof!” 

as black ash and flames shot through the roof. The commotion and shouting within the inn paused for 

a moment, then came back as quickly as it had left. There was no more celebration in the shouting. 

The whiskey in their bellies lit afire as they shouted for help. The whiskey from the keg. The 

innkeeper looked at the baby in his arms and sighed, too tired for tears. 

And that was what had started this. But the innkeep was ending it. A battle had been lost, but 

the war was still being fought. And in war even old men and young children may choose a side. The 

pompous knights had not even noticed when he locked the doors. Nor had they noticed the small girl 

lighting the burning barrel of whiskey upstairs. But they noticed now.  

The foundation shuddered as the last of flames pulled it to the ground.​ ​The screams broke 

through the air as the walls fell inward. Knights, roasting in their armour, ran out into the fields like 

bright, glowing, headless chickens. The high-born lords, only sat lifeless, and burnt, at the tables. 

Their screams echoed through the night. Off the city walls, and all the way up the castle. Their 

screams echoed loud enough for the Puppet King to hear them burning. 

When all the light had gone from the display, a figure ran through the darkness. A small girl 

covered in soot pushed the innkeeper awake. The tears finally came when he saw her, and all he did 

was hold her for a time in that black night. She was different though, something had changed. She 

smelled of burnt wood and whiskey, and had lost her hair to the fire. 

The morning after, an old knight- in dented and burnt armour- set out with a very skinny, and 

newly bald, squire. They rode in a well-stocked wagon, going somewhere South. 

 
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The Twilight Age 

The sun began to set, but never fell beneath the horizon. An old man looked across a field of 

crops as twilight grasped his home. The owner of an inn looked out a window from the washing up 

and saw a world of limbo. A priest, covered in raiment and holy garb, blessed the pious crowds to 

save them from half darkness that consumed the land. The King sat uneasily upon his throne, as all 

through the land people yearned for change. Sorcerer's disappeared from the caves, stolen away with 

the witches of the woods. 

Sometimes it rained, and the young ones hid their tears behind the water. 

Sometimes it thundered and the old ones did too. 

The Kingdom learned to live in this world between night and day. 

There were no absolutes. The sky would not decide. The sun stared across the ground, 

peevishly peaking over the horizon. Half above, half below. Always on the cusp of night, but never 

truly dark. Though it never set in, darkness was all around. It was a flood being held back by some 

invisible dam that would never break. 

This was when we didn’t know that it was our last chance, and we forgot our civilized ways. 

The twilight drove men mad, and riots broke out across the land. Lesser men turned on their 

liege lords. Laws were forgotten. The Uneasy King now hid in his castle, letting no one in or out. The 

Kingdom was no more. And then the darkness broke. Black evil poured in from all directions, 

suffocating the guilty and innocent alike. The ground opened and entire villages fell into the deep 

fissures. 

No one was left untouched by the darkness. The time for atonement had finally come for the 

sins of our ancestors. Twilight had passed. 

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The Gargoyle of Castle Royce 

Beware the weary traveller, who deigns to rest their head, 

Within the haunted walls, where Lord Royce was laid to rest. 

Beware the ancient cobbled stone, and poisons in the bread, 

But of the dangers of Castle Royce, let this above all be said, 

Of where the gargoyle watches, don’t ever, ever tread. 

With skin of stone as strong as bone, it watches from the walls, 

Ready to defend it’s home, with ancient deadly claws.