Jonathan Smith

The Fall of Haringa

The Palace lounge was possibly the most expensive room in the whole nation of Haringa. It was built with real stone from the mountains far South, giving it a pale pink complexion that stood in stark contrast to the dull parauri sandstone city that sprawled out around the Palace. The room itself was adorned with soft pillows of red and gold silk, and tables made of mirror-polished wood from the Eastern Rakau Orchard. However despite the fine furnishings of the room, a thick air of anxiety surrounded the royal heirs of High King Runoko as they were fussed over and plucked at by the many servants of the palace. The oldest of the four heirs was Tarn, a tall boy with a mop of curly black hair the servants had desperately tried to control, to no avail. He wore a cascading cloth gown of red and black patterns that stretched down to his knees, clearly marking him as the first born son. Yet despite the grand garb, his young face still naively expressed his anxiety as a nervous eye darted over to the balcony of the palace that overlooked the hanging gardens. It was typically relaxing, to be able to sit on the wide balcony and look over the grand halls. Walls 30ft high and adorned with plants of every size and shape; trees the size of pillars; terraces overflowing with fruit-bearing bushes; and the sweet aroma of blooming flowers. All of this: ruined and spoiled by the mass of people bustling and crowding in the halls of the garden to try and get a look at the balcony to see Tarn’s father. Oh how he hated being anywhere near this many people, seeing them all look at him, judge him, and having to be perfect for them. He hated it all…but he hated that man even more. His eyes darted over to the side of the balcony where a figure was already sitting, seemingly unfazed by the huge crowd that had come to see his ‘masterpiece’. Why did father have to let him sit up here with the rest of the family? Tarn’s face turned to a scowl without an ounce of effort as he stared at the back of the silhouetted man’s head. His brooding was cut short by Itara carefully picking a white dog hair off the dark cloak that swamped Tarn’s body. “Why the long face, Prince?” He met her eyes, his attention instantly arrested by her familiar face and held there for a long moment before he gathered himself hurriedly, puffing out his chest to stand up as straight as he could. “Me? No! I was just…” He coughed into his fist nervously, looking around the room to see if anyone else was paying attention to him. “I was just looking at all the people that had come, there’s surely over half the City here, no?”