Maxmilian
Legacy Name: Maxmilian

Story/profile under construction c:

Maxmilian, King of the Valley of Arell, bowed respectfully to the Council seated before him. They, in turn, placed their right hands to their foreheads, then to their mouth, and finally to their hearts. The Council insisted on such rituals before each meeting, formalities ranked highly on their lists of importance, something Maxmilian found quite irritating.

Maxmilian sat himself at the head of the table. It was his rightful place, after all, but for some reason the chair upon which he sat made him cringe. Injustice and discord was all he could accomplish from this chair.

"My friends," he began, sifting though the thin sheets of parchment before him. He did not need to read them to know what his Council proposed. "I do not disagree with your motion, but I do believe there is a better way to go about this."

In truth, he disagreed with almost everything his Council brought forward. They were vile, greedy, sly men and women concerned only for themselves. They cared not what they did to his people - his people! - nor to him. He was merely a figurehead, a point of blame for all the wrongdoings in his kingdom.

But all that would change, and soon.

Cyril, a fat balding man with eyes like a snake nearly tore the sheet of parchment he clutched between his pudgy hands. "But your grace," he broke in, voice sandy and shrill, "The peasants, they question your laws of late. They gather and whisper, my king, of your... disposal" The gleam in his eye was sickening.

"And my king, if I might add," cooed Miere, fluttering her dark lashes as if to sway him, "They question your lack of a queen. Perhaps you should marry...?" Her sly smile did more than merely suggest.

Maxmilian nodded and uttered empty acquiescence for the remainder of the meeting. It was of no use to him to argue. Eventually the Council always did as they wished, whether they told him or not. He was merely a figurehead. But not for long.

The king strode down the hall to his chambers where he feigned a headache and told his manservant not to disturb him. This had become somewhat of a ritual for him as of late. Ironically, he did have a slight ache right at the bridge of his nose, but he paid it no mind as he locked his doors, disrobed and opened the chest at the foot of his mattress.

He dug through the canisters, boxes, books and other things to the very bottom of the chest. It appeared to be the bottom, at least. He traced his fingers along the edges of the base to find the hidden latch. As soon as he heard it click, the bottom came free. Maxmilian lifted it from the chest.

What was revealed looked to be a pile of dusty rags and old scraps of leather, but to his eyes they were finer than all the silks in his wardrobe. He quickly clothed himself in the tattered shirt and breeches, leaving the well-worn boots for last. Replacing everything as it was he made his way to the mirror to admire his new attire.

He smiled, letting himself relax a bit. It was time.

Maxmilian kneeled to the cold marble floor and reached beneath his bed frame. There, he found a thick iron latch that he turned to the right until the wooden trap door swung down silently. He rolled to his belly and down into the tunnel he went.

The tunnel was dark and damp and only lit at the end by the light of the moon. The tunnel had become a symbol of his transformation. From riches to rags, from Maxmilian the King of the Valley of Arell to the street thief and rebel of the kingdom: Max.

As he emerged from a secluded area in the forest surrounding the castle and main city, he let loose a laugh he had been holding since the meeting. Most of the rumors of which his Council spoke were started by him. He was surprised they reached the castle that quickly.

Max regained his composure and set off toward the city of Arell where he met his real Council. They called themselves the Council of the Just. And rightfully so.

He found himself in a cramped dusty room at the back of an even dustier tavern of which he knew not the name. It didn't matter, however, for he was in his real meeting, now.

Before him sat his most trusted friends. Aralee, poised and beautiful despite her many scars and tattered garb; Jon the Key, master locksmith and lock-pick, noble and fair; Marek and Pemrol, brothers equal in size and strength and loyalty. Yevie, Haren, Terron, Ethie and Night. His kingdom - no, his life - lay in their hands.

ART
♥️ by NikonD40