Castell {ch. 1}

by Obi in London

Once again I have started yet another short story next to Angelo, hopefully this one will get finished unlike the others. Unlike the others, I have real faith in this (plus excess text for the next chapter)!
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Castell, Chapter 1

A Pegasus was an expensive steed, and it was not one that Pochard Castell expected to see galloping and gliding across the miry moor on the greyest of dusks. He lent curiously over the balcony ledge of his chambers observatory, to catch a closer look at the mysterious rider. He held his gilded lorgnette to his grey eyes and found the young traveller to be harpist, as he carried a hefty but portable harp on his back in a leather sling. He had fair blond hair, bedraggled with rain and a rusted iron sword that swung from his once fine now horrendously worn clothes. He was out in the moor, which was the edge of earthly view he could see from his balcony and it’d be a good long hour before the stranger neared the drawbridge or the palace grounds.
He brushed his tailcoat robe of the droplets of rain that clung to the fabric and turned to his manservant, Guinn Curt. “Tell the guards to bring the harpist who passes on the silver Pegasus, to visit here and he may shelter in my halls as long as he plays for me and my court,” ordered Pochard, or Lord Castell as he preferred greatly, “and tell my insolent wretch of a son, that he is not to be late for dinner tonight or I shall bar him from his own study and burn his journals and manuscripts in which he keeps those stories!”
The manservant mumbled a hasty ‘yes Lord’ and scurried off to do his masters menial biddings.

Widgeon Castell, as usual had locked himself in the cosy hollow of his study. With only the faint green glow of an eternal candle to light his writings, which lay fanned across his huge oaken desk on which his vial of squids ink and his griffin feather quill were perched. His summery gold griffin feather quill was dancing across the page, scratching incessantly leaving impossibly neat handwriting behind it’s nib as it glided across the linen vellum. Widgeon looked up from his work, as the manservant slipped through the door of his underground study and descended the floor.
“Why, good evening Guinn. Whatever brings you down here?” asked Widgeon cheerfully, he was significantly less horrid then his father and much less pompous and uppity. Guinn, looked back with a nervous, very forced grin.
“Your dad in these exact words said: and tell my insolent wretch of a son, that he is not to be late for dinner tonight or I shall bar him from his own study and burn his journals and manuscripts in which he keeps those stories!” Guinn had an excellent memory, much accredited and lauded by most of the court nobles and sometimes Lord Castell himself.
Widgeon sighed, and closed his books and went to prepare for dinner. In Castell Castle, every dinner was like a banquet: With musicians, noble guests, mountains of food of which is considered rude or glutinous to finish and of course no banquet is complete without a proper gentlemen’s duel. Widgeon dragged himself to the Lord’s Bath Chamber, which he had the privilege of using. It was basically a huge pool of hot water and a thousand scents and aromas that spilled from the taps as soaps and colognes. A young chamber maid stood by with a tray of delectable foreign treats, like choclatyli from Italiq and fromage from Franz. The maid was trying her hardest not to look, but it was considered rude to display any sign of distaste, unwillingness or disgust. To her it was the worst part of her job, and possibly the only part of her job.
Widgeon clambered out of the pool, smelling sweet and refreshing with his breath smelling of mint which had chewed while soaking in the water. He passed the palace conjurer on the way, his massive flowing robes and dull grey halo dazzled him as they were made of wispy gas. His name was Cancer Vaughn, he was second only to one: The kings Royal Sorcerer, Hornby Thresher. Widgeon had pretended to have passive feelings towards Cancer Vaughn for some time, but really he had a feeling of distrust whenever he saw him glide by. He made his way to the centre of the grand building to Quinton’s Hall and sat down at his seat on the side-middle of the banquet table. The nobles quickly arrived shortly after, eager to avoid a scolding for being late from Pochard. The last guest to walk into the hall was the young rider who had been riding in the moors. His fair hair was dry, his sword was rebuilt and clothes refined to their former glory. He held his golden harp in hand, the strings were centaur hair no doubt by Pochard’s keen eye. He introduced himself simply as Plover Obert, a musician from the Northern Kingdom and began to play beautifully over the raucous noise of nobles making merry and turned the dinner to revel that carried on deep into the night until all were drunk.