Lothar

In thirteen-twelve, a prince was born, Heir to a throne, a life sworn. Lothar Niklausen, proud and grand, In luxury's hold, he took his stand.

Pampered and haughty, heart full of pride, In revel and conquest, he did preside.

Arrogance bloomed, a blinding light, Ignoring the darkness, the coming night. Niklaus, his father, wise and old, Had a lesson planned, a story told.

Into the Hollow, Lothar was led, By whispers of magic, a path spread. A creature awaited, power untold, In arrogance's grip, Lothar was bold.

A deal, a curse, a whispered plea, For a heart too proud, too blind to see. His form was twisted, a monstrous frame, Reflecting the darkness of his name.

No more a prince, but a beast he roams, Through tangled swamps, his new found home. A haunting reminder of a life before, The Cursed Prince of the Hollow's lore.

Prologue

---

The Cursed Prince of The Hollow.

Centuries ago, in the heart of the royal kingdom of Nemorosa, there was a beautiful baby boy born just moments ago. With eyes as blue as the ocean and hair blonde as seeds of grain. The kingdom wept in joy as those round eyes opened, when the first small smile spread. Prince Balto, the Queen whispers, for she knew he would protect them all when he grew into his warrior shoes. On this day Prince Balto was born, the sun shimmered and the festivals ran from sunrise to sunfall. The sky was clear, not a single cloud in sight, and a warmth coated the Queen's skin in her bed.

Beside her, the King so young and charming in his early years, held her hand. Gently pressing his forehead to his wee sons, and though he would deny it, tears stained his cheeks.

“My son,” The King would whisper, voice cracking under the emotion. “My boy.”

So the kingdom wept of joy, the day was marked a day of festivity.

It was a wonderful day, to be remembered for centuries.

Or so everyone would believe.

Years later, the hallways where servants would watch the young Prince waddle around and babble joyously would become dreaded. For Prince Balto in his child years was disdainful and haughty. He would hit the servants, call them a dull-minded nuisance, for they had no other choice but to work for him. The poor were nothing but loggerheaded, leathern-jerkin louts who would achieve nothing more than groveling in the dirt and kissing his shoes. His father, King Niklaus, was a revered man whom the kingdom loved dearly. The Queen would pass from childbirth complications years after Balto was born. History proclaims that this was the reason Balto acted out. For how could a man grow up clear-headed if not with a gentle mothers hand and a firm fathers voice?

From tantrums to shouting, escaping the castle to destroying the carefully cultivated gardens, the kingdom found Prince Balto a nuisance. Guards skipped their duties and hid away when the prince strutted down the halls. The maids in charge of his care would argue endlessly getting him into his clothes, to eat, to stay by their side. No one wished to deal with the Prince any longer.

In his adult years, Balto did not improve. The kingdom grew worried, for King Niklaus wished to retire. Yet Balto was not a ruler anyone wanted. They wanted him revoked of his royal status, yet King Niklaus refused to lose hope in his son. He was there when his boy was born, and saw the good in his eyes.

All his boy needed was a hard lesson.

Just a reminder that he may be rich, but beneath his flesh wasn’t gold coins and lavish fabrics: it was blood. The same blood that ran through everyone's body.

On the eve of Balto’s nineteenth birthday, the king called his son to the throne room.

With a flourish, Prince Balto shoved the grand doors open, the force of his entrance causing a slosh of beer to spill over the rim of his mug, splattering onto the plush carpet below. He struck a pose, arms thrown wide as if to embrace the entire room, his voice booming with theatrical grandeur. "Come, drink with us! Relinquish these crooked-nose knaves of their duties for but a single night's revelry," He grandly stated, throwing his arms open.

A knight standing unfortunately close to Balto received a splash of his beer across his polished armor. He muttered under his breath, “What a load of coxcomb...”

"What, pray tell, was that?" Balto's head whipped around, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on the knight. The knight straightened, attempting to regain his composure under the prince's piercing stare. Balto held his gaze for a moment longer before turning away with a dismissive sniff. "That is what I presumed..."

“Balto,” King Niklaus seated on his throne sighed wearily. The lines etched on his face seemed to deepen with each passing year, a sign of burden for each year as King. He had hoped these later years would be a time of well-earned rest, a chance to relinquish some of the responsibilities he'd carried for so long. But his son... Niklaus spoke, his voice tinged with a familiar weariness that spoke volumes of countless such exchanges, “It has come to my attention that you are in pursuit of further power. Yet, I ask you, are you certain of this need? A wise ruler knows that strength lies not always in the might of his fists, but in the compassion of his heart,"

“Pffsht!” Balto shook his head adamantly, “Father. Such gilded words may befit those who would prefer to wither away rather than defend their legacy.”

A vein throbbed at King Niklaus's temple, a single red line against his age-weathered skin. His attempts at imparting wisdom, it seemed, were lost amidst his son's clamor for more power. "Then, draw near, my son,"

With his voice heavy with a fatherly sorrow. He reached for a roll of parchment, its surface crisscrossed with lines and annotations he had plotted over many sleepless nights. It was his last resort, a gamble he'd hoped not to take. This will teach him a lesson, one way or another. "If power is what you so fervently desire, it is here where you shall find it."

Balto’s eyes widened, the dim light of the hall reflecting off them as he nearly stumbled forward. The goblet he had been holding clattered to the stone floor, its contents spilling like an offering to a forgotten god. Greedily, he snatched the parchment from his father's outstretched hand, his gaze devouring the cryptic markings.

"But... Father," he began, his voice a mix of confusion and disbelief. He traced the faded lines of ink with a calloused finger, his brow furrowed in a rare moment of introspection. They looked nonsensical. Like scribbles. "Surely, you jest. Fairytales hold no truth. Dragons, enchanting fairies — mere fables whispered by bards to frighten children."

"Aye, there is a thread of truth in all tales, Balto," Niklaus countered, his voice a low rumble. He jabbed a gnarled finger at the map. "Yonder lies a beast of great magic. They say its heart, once claimed, bestows powers beyond mortal comprehension. I may worry for you, son, but if it's power you crave, then go forth and claim it."

Balto’s eyes now blazed with an almost feral excitement. The parchment crinkled as he shoved it into the folds of his tunic, a victorious snarl twisting his lips. "My thanks, Father. You have done wisely."

He embraced Niklaus then, a gesture so fierce it seemed almost violent, his face buried in the rich fabric of his father's royal garments. This was sure to get him somewhere in the world.

The king, already mourning a future he feared he would not share with his only son, held him tightly, his heart clenched like a fist within his chest. He hoped his lessons would come to fruition, and result in some self reflection and his sons return. "Go then, my son, and may the gods watch over you. I pray for your safe return."

"I shall return," Balto whispered, drawing back. He pivoted sharply and bellowed towards the knights guarding the hall. "Guards! Attend to me! Bring forth my steed, the swiftest in the kingdom! Waste no more time standing about, you dullards! There's power to be seized, trophies to be claimed!"

As the prince disappeared down the hallway, the King sighs sadly. I love you, son.

---

By night, the horse galloped through the thick forests. Prince Balto was seated upon it, holding the reins tightly with the parchment tucked into his clothes. His lucky sword strapped to his hip. “Faster, faster! We must fetch this power before anyone else does.”

The night sky shimmered with a blanket of stars, the moon casting a silvery glow onto the treetops. Each hoofbeat of Balto’s steed, a powerful horse named Furst, kicked up small clouds of rich, dark soil as they navigated the treacherous path. The horse weaved narrowly avoiding stray branches and hopping over fallen logs. The air hung thick and heavy, rank with the scent of damp earth and decaying vegetation, a miasma that clung to everything. He wanted to gag, but he held it all together.

He despised this wretched swamp The Hollow, his father had called it.

The sooner he slaughtered this beast, the sooner he could depart from this wretched swamp. His father had grown up telling him to avoid The Hollows.

"Creatures reside there, both large and small, who harbor a deep hatred for humans," he used to say.

Balto hadn't believed the stories then, dismissing them as old wives' tales. Yet, he had always avoided the swamp, not out of fear, but out of disgust, he thought, What a fool he was. For the pungent smell of the nearby peasants who lived on its borders was reason enough to do so.

The swamp reeked of them.

"Foul, foul creatures," Balto muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "They might as well roll in the mud like the pigs they tend to so fondly, right, Furst?"

The horse merely whipped its head back, its dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. It trotted with a feverish pace, wanting to be away just as much as Balto, huffing steam from its nostrils. Balto chuckled a dry laugh that was quickly swallowed by the dense foliage as he expertly ducked his head to avoid another low-hanging branch, his long blonde locks nearly being snagged. "We shall revisit the topic once I've succeeded, old friend." He said his voice dripping with barely contained excitement at finally getting to go home, His words filled with sarcasm.

He had been riding for what felt like an eternity, the ceaseless drone of insects and the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth grating on his nerves. It was hard to see through all the brush, mist and darkness, as soon as he arrived home he would bathe for an eternity until the smell completely faded from his clothes. If he didn't return soon, he might miss his lavish supper. More importantly, there was a woman waiting for him, Orla, with her glorious, full figure and child-rearing hips.

He yearned to have her in his bed once more. If she weren't such a harlot, he might have considered making her his queen. The thought of her, warm and yielding beneath him, sent a familiar heat coursing through his veins.

He slowed the horse down when he found the familiar marked tree. A skull marked on it. The horse gave a nervous whinny, shifting restlessly until Balto ran his fingers through its mane. “Easy, Furst, royals don’t panic.” He whispers, raising one leg from over his horse and landing beside it with a thump. He pulled the parchment out, resting it against the horse's back letting the moonlight highlight its parts.

Just around here, north, a plain should be visible. A small piece of land where no trees wished to grow. There, the legendary creature would appear when the moonlights brightest. Balto looked up at the sky, it was getting brighter under the moon. Where it stood right above them.

He tied the horses rein to the tree branch, patting its rump. “I’ll be back.” Then he pulled his sword out of its hilt, creeping forward towards the plain. Each step felt louder than it had any right to be. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The leaves were plentiful. It was getting chillier, maybe winter was approaching.

It was then he heard a sound. Heavier, a whinny. But his horse was behind him? Could it be...?

Balto moved brisk but silently through the forest until he made it to the edge of the plains. He dropped to one knee, looking around.

Amidst the plains, a radiant glimmer caught his keen eye. It shimmered and danced, a beacon in the golden expanse, gradually resolving into a form both majestic and ethereal. A unicorn, the very embodiment of legend, stood before him, its coat as pure as the first winter snow, its mane a cascade of silver light. But it was the singular, spiraled horn that crowned its noble head that truly captivated him, making his heart pound with fierce desire. There it is, his mind growled, the beast of whispered tales and lore.

"A docile creature," his father's voice echoed in his memory, a guiding whisper from beyond the confines of the castle walls. "It won't attack, not if you approach with stealth."

Balto circled the plains like a shadow flitting across the tall grasses, and slowly dropped into a low crouch. Each step was deliberate. He crept towards the unicorn from behind, the creature engrossed in its peaceful grazing, unaware of the impending doom. Closer now, the scent of the magical beast filled his nostrils—a mix of wildflowers and starlight, almost intoxicating. He could almost taste the shimmering stars on the tip of his tongue, a promise of power, of transcendence. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, Balto rose, his mighty sword gleaming wickedly in the moonlight. With a powerful thrust, he plunged it deep into the unicorn's rump, piercing flesh and sinew.

"Nnngh!" The unicorn's serene facade shattered, replaced by a harrowing whinny that tore through the stillness of the plains. It thrashed, attempting to flee, but Balto was relentless. He lunged, tackling the majestic creature to the ground with a grunt, his grip on his sword unwavering. Again and again, he raised his sword high, plunging it into the unicorn's flesh with savage ferocity. The unicorn's cries grew weaker, its light fading, until finally, with a last, shuddering breath, it fell silent. The light escaped its eyes.

Panting heavily, Balto dropped his sword, the metallic clang echoing across the now-silent plains. His hands pressed into the creature's still-warm wounds. The parchment his father had penned spoke of devouring the creature raw, of absorbing its power in its purest form.

Despite the gnawing fear of the potential for sickness, he leaned in, tearing into the flesh with fervor. A leg, then another, the meat shoved into his mouth, the taste a strange blend of game and something... other. Blood, warm and coppery, trickled down his chin as he devoured the unicorn. When his hunger was sated, his stomach stretched taut, Balto sat back, his gaze fixed on the remains of the once-majestic creature. The power, it had to be coursing through him now, yet... he felt no different. Had his father lied? Was this all for naught?

A few minutes passed, and Balto didn’t feel any different except for just nauseous from eating raw meat, along with irritation that his father was wrong. The dead unicorn smelled absolutely horrid as well. He slowly picked himself up, grabbing his bloodied sword. “When I see that old man again...” Balto mutters, nails digging into his palm.

As Balto reached the clearing where he had left Furst, he found the horse in a state of visible distress. Furst, usually a picture of equine calmness, was now a whirlwind of anxious energy, whinnying shrilly and kicking his back legs high into the air. His powerful muscles strained against the rope that tethered him, his usually gentle eyes wide with a primal fear that Balto had never seen before.

"Furst? What ails you?" Balto asked, his voice a mix of confusion and concern. He reached out a gloved hand to soothe his agitated companion, hoping to calm the creature with a familiar touch.

But Furst tore free from his restraints with a violent wrench. The horse wheeled around, casting a wild, desperate look at Balto before bolting into the depths of the woods, disappearing among the gnarled, moss-draped trees.

"Furst!" Balto’s voice boomed through the silent woods. "Damn it" He broke into a run, his heavy boots sinking into the soft, marshy ground. Yet, something felt profoundly wrong. His movements, once swift and agile, were now sluggish and unwieldy, his steps feeling alien and untrue, each feeling heavier than the last as if filled with lead. It was as if his own body was betraying him as he crashed in front of a puddle. "What sort of joke is this–?"

The puddle offered a glimpse of his reflection. What he saw made his blood run cold. "No, it cannot be" His eyes, once a striking piercing blue now bottomless pits of dark. Coarse, dark fur sprouted across his once smooth skin, and a pair of monstrous, gnarled antlers erupted from his head, twisting towards the sky like the branches of a dead tree. His face was no longer that of a man, but of something monstrous, something inherently different and changed from its nature, something nonhuman.

Panic seized him as he watched the transformation overtake his body. Bones contorted with sickening cracks, muscles shifted and expanded beneath his skin, and a scream tore from his throat—a sound that was both human and animal, full of horror and disbelief.

Knowing that he could not face his father in this grotesque form, that he could not return to his former life as something so monstrous and inhuman, Balto turned away from the path that led to home and the safety and luxury of the life of a prince. Instead, ran deeper into the heart of the Hollow, the very place he had once scorned.

---

16 years have passed since that fateful night. He was no longer Prince Balto. But Lothar. A cruel, feral beast who deserved nothing more than to feast on the animals he catches and waste away.

Lothar sat in the swamp, wading halfway in the water feasting on a slimy fish. He tore into it, swallowing its fleshy exterior and devouring the bones full. He was still hungry, always was, but he didn’t feel motivated to hunt.

Somedays, he found himself standing at the edge of The Hollow. Staring at the neighboring town full of peasants he used to visit and mock. He’d stick his nose up, letting their cattle out and watching them scurry like rats to get their pigs and chickens back in. He wonders what his father was doing, if he was still alive. Did the kingdom miss him? Or did they see him as nothing more than a spoiled brat that deserved what came to him?

Forlornly, Lothar looked at his hands. Long claws extended, and he resisted shredding the tree beside him. No, the former prince has lived like this long enough to know it wouldn’t amount to anything. No anger could erase his curse.

But... there was one more solution.

A foretold legendary creature said that if he ate them, they could erase his curse. Grant him humanity and transform him back to his human self. He’d spent years searching, and came fruitless every time. Until a week earlier, he found the old legend in a discarded magic book. If he gathered gifts and laid them out in the area where the moon can touch, he may summon that creature. So he had spent the day picking the finest berries, killed woodland creatures for sustenance, and even his finest sword. His lucky one. He’d laid them out in the plains, waiting day and night for the creature to show. But no such luck. He began to believe it was hopeless.

But sitting in the swamp, he heard the sound of activity from those plains. Lothar bolted from the swamp without even shaking the droplets from his fur, bounding on all fours until he came to the edge.

The plains where the unicorn was slaughtered. Where he left his gifts waiting for the blessed creature. There a trap was laid, he never planned on being kind after all. The blessed creature would be caught in his bear trap, and then he’d come to them and devour them. That’s what the fortune foretold after all, eat the blessed creature and return to his human form. There, he caught a glimpse of the creature, waiting for it to end up in the trap. This was it. His cure.

"Get in the trap... You..." he muttered under his breath, the words a venomous cocktail of desperation and lingering arrogance. "So that I may finally return to my perfect life as a human."