If At First You Don't Succeed...
Prince Hans Westergaard, one of the many spares of the Southern Isles, found his panic intensifying.
"Sir, the storm has no end!" The helmsman shouted back to its Captain, as Hans found his throat dry despite the wetness of the sea. No. He couldn't die here.
Before him was a never ending storm, shards of hail plummeting down like daggers from the sky, the storm clearly magical in nature. It roared down upon them with a murderous fervor, his ship swaying back and forth in response, as if threatening to tip over.
"Keep pushing onwards!" He managed to yell, forcing his body to move through the terrifying winds, the sounds of his crew, the remnants of his very Kingdom, screaming with fright, some being taken by the sea's grip and forced off the wooden sanctity beneath them. "We move South, until we've found shore! We can't be long for it now!" His cries were met with a lack of enthusiasm by the remainder of his people, though they followed his orders regardless - what choice did they have left?
They'd left off the Southern port of Arendelle in a frenzy, ships being torn asunder by icy winds without comparison, a shrill scream carried throughout the furious icy winds, one of heartbreak and loss. There had been no time for plans, or great manipulations; the instinct for survival and self-preservation was all that kept him alive.
He'd had his sword at the ready, prepared to bring it down on the Queen, reap the rewards he'd been setting himself up to plunder. But something in her voice brought him down, maybe it was the sobs of despair - perhaps he could have controlled this situation? After all, all the easier to take over the Kingdom if there was still a Queen in charge. Yes, he could work with this.
That quickly came crashing down when those sobs turned into screams. No longer just despair, now there was a fierce rage and hatred in her cries; the winds picked up and with a cry, the prince found himself flying back at the furiousness of it; feet lifted off the ground, he landed harshly on the solid ice, wind forced out from his lungs. The sky above began to pick up, thunder crackled overhead, and Hans felt true fear. Looking back to the Queen, he found her huddled in on herself, vulnerable. Yet his hands shook, and his fear forced him back. Hans fled.
In the present, Hans knew he'd been overly lucky as it was, to have avoided death so many times already. It appeared that luck had run itself dry, as with a mighty wave, he felt the floors beneath him disappear, the ship toppling on its side. All around him, voices cried out in distress, but there was nothing to be done about it.
As the icy cold beneath him enveloped his form, Hans prepared himself for a slow death.
It was to the sounds of voices chattering in a foreign language that the prince awoke. His eyes flickered open, the skies above a clear blue that he couldn't be more thankful for. Tilting his head, he eyed a few soldiers, metal plated helms, and swords at their sides. Their language was familiar, and he quickly picked up on the nationality - German. He'd learned a few languages in his youth, and German was one he'd picked up on almost as easily as his native language. The men were going on about the multitude of bodies that littered the beach, and that the "Queen" would need to be informed.
Something inside of Hans snapped back into place at the words. With a great strain on his muscles, he barely lifted himself up, a man squawking at the sight, before quickly surrounding him, weapons pointed at the nearly dead man. A few notes of warning were shouted out at him, but even so the prince stood, and with a heavy breath he spoke to the soldiers.
"I… am Prince Hans Westergaard, of the Southern Isles. I believe your Queen would be most interested in what I have to tell her."
