PRINCE OF FOOLS: Introduction

The Old Beggar raises his head to hear the children playing over the other side of the wall. This is an old wall. Perhaps one of the oldest in the Sultan's entire kingdom for this is the very wall that has separated the royal class from everyone and everything else since time in memorial-- it also happens to be the part of the wall that is closest to the royal kitchen. The once familiar aromatics of spices, sweet dates, and fresh baked bread fill the Old Beggar’s head with memories long gone. Closing his eyes they wash over him, he can almost taste the sweet wines and succulent pastries reserved only for the finest Kings and Queens across the land. 

He doesn’t like to sit here often. Not only did his empty belly ache, but he could only handle so many past memories in a day. Too many would awaken the worst nightmares even when he manages to find himself lucky enough to fall asleep on a discarded pile of flea ridden blankets. 

This day was worth it though. The laughter of a familiar voice, now much older, fills his ears with beautiful songs. A proud smile emerges from the leathery-lines of his bearded face. He is glad to go without food today. These memories are worth it. Tomorrow he will find a good spot at the bazaar where the charity is more generous. To hear that voice again and to remember how she danced along the steps of the royal garden while the smell of the morning breeze was a delicious zephyr of spice patties and honey cakes. ‘This moment,’ thought the Old Beggar, ‘is more precious than all the lands in the kingdom’. It almost made everything he had done worth it -- except he knows the nightmares will not be too far behind. 

And just like that, the Old Beggar is given another memory. Not one as sweet or as innocent, but one filled with darkness and deep night. It usually starts when the hot desert cools so quickly that a thick fog creeps its way into every corner of his mind. He tries to stay awake by counting the stars, but tonight is overcast. There is no light in the sky. No matter how tightly he pulls his ratty old blankets over his head, he knows he cannot fend off the cold for long. 

For you see, the myths of the Northern Borean tribes hold true; and it is in many ways worse than the stories handed down at teashops and the public hammam. The sharp pain from where his hand was cleaved from his wrist pulses with memories of revenge, frostbite, and the hot knife. Then he remembers his father’s voice, ‘You shall have it all, my dear boy’. What kind of father knowingly sends his son to such a place?

Now he finds himself back at the Bazaar begging for just enough coin that he can buy himself a clean and warm blanket for the oncoming cold night. ‘If only I had survived,’ he thinks to himself as he stares motionless into the setting sun. The warm desert air rushes away from the city streets as a storm front of blue-grey clouds thunder in the distance. His hot ragged breath streaks the oncoming blue-grey clouds with trails of steam that trickle up his chapped nostrils. Tonight is going to be cold.  

Enter A Land of Darkness and Deep Night

Borea along the Yenisei River

There is a place in the far north, north of the eastern lands in the Indus Valley, far from the cradle of human civilization. Aeons ago, a small tribe of nomadic warriors found a tremendous river that flowed from the Arctic Ocean. They named it the Yenisei (or Mother River). Their spiritual leader told them they could only find true strength and power at her headwaters: where the river met with the sea. It took generations to break the trail on foot, as the winter weather brought certain death to any who strayed from the path. Those who were too weak to keep walking north along the banks of settled where they could and died. Feeding off the warm-blooded animals and malignant flora that scattered across the dark, ragged peaks, these weary nomads survived by living like shadows by devouring anything that swept across these barren lands. Only the strongest continued upriver, walking openly between the forests, mountains, and steppes that were slowly being washed away by the crashing waves of the Yenisei. Under the oppressive Northern Moon, her cold waters quenched their thirst and the raging fires forged their strength and determination to live free.

Eventually one tribe was strong enough to reach the river’s end. They called the headwaters Borea in tribute to the God of Earth and Fire that kept them fed and warm. Not long afterwards, children born from the dark lands of Borea would be empowered by the cold waters of the Yenisei to become both legend and myth. Stories that would flow south to the lands of hot deserts and warm seas, being spoken of as nightmares that lurk in fairy tales, along with flying carpets and magic lamps. As the old stories of a Borean’s cold steel and hellfire strength grew, the Boreans themselves remained hidden in the north. Then children of privilege started to spintails of how these Boreans ruthlessly rode packs of wolves down the river, past the mountains, and towards the Southern Sea only to die at the end of their sword.

This story begins with a single Borean Warrior: one blessed by Borea to carry the strength, darkness, and coldness of Mother Yenisei in his veins. He decided to leave his Borean brothers and sisters and travel south until he found another salty sea. All he took with him from Borea was a broad blade forged by the ice of the Mother River and fire from Borea herself. Palaces crumbled, and kingdoms shook under his feet. The few who survived his wrath were too smart to vow vengeance on such a raw and brutal force. All but a foolish Prince who was given a Sultan’s army to go north in search of Borea... and burn it all to the ground! 

North through the scorching sands. 

North across the mountain pass. 

North along the Yenisei. 

North to find death.