The Victorian

At one point I came across a contest on the web to win a Victorian house via an essay. So…I gave it a shot. The contest was contingent upon enough people entering and unfortunately that didn’t happen, but this was my entry:

Why I’ve Always Wanted a True Victorian House

Late afternoon sunlight is warming my parlor, piercing the jeweled colors of my stained glass windows and casting a mosaic of prisms onto polished wooden floors burnished by countless footsteps wandering through the generations. The sleeping grey cat curled on the settee is content as I am in the warmth of it; the heat soothes and stirs the relaxed meandering of images that reside in us both.

It is quiet along my hallways and in my high ceilinged rooms and in my kitchen; my only company the dreaming cat and the gentle mechanical tick of the grandfather clock in my reception hall. Even my deep lace hung porches are quiet this afternoon, with rocking chairs and swing left waiting for the boisterous return of my family from wherever it is they have gone. Outside the absent stirring of a breeze wanders over the soft green of my clapboard and twirls flirtatiously around my white gables. It then wanders on to comb gentle fingers through the crepe myrtles, giant oaks and lilac bushes that adorn the emerald cape of my verdant grass skirt.

Far above me the fluffy white tails of silver planes that glint in the sun crisscross a blue sky. I can remember the times before such things; when horses and wagons plodded upon dusty trails that surrounded me. I recall a time before the rubber of tires became common in the places where only equine hooves and leather soled feet had left their shapes before.

I have not always been aware as I am now. I have been given life by memories and time as my families have come and gone through the decades, each bringing to my halls and my grounds parts of their lives; flickering and fleeting beings so poignant and ethereal. In my memories I hear the first cries of an infant in the corner bedroom above second from the right. The ghostly scent of magnolia and gardenia lingers around the polished wooden rails of my stairway in remembrance of weddings past. I retain the images of Christmases, birthdays, funerals and the daily passing of a hundred lives along my halls and in the depths of my rooms. I remember my families as well as my visitors and though I am still here and they are gone, a part of them all still remain in the grain of my wood and in the faint music of my soul.

I am aware of my own beauty. I am gracious and well bred; created with thought and precision by masters of wood and tile and plaster. I am a reminder of an age when what mattered took time and care, and men had pride in what they wrought. I have lasted through the passage of years while lesser structures have fallen to neglect and rubble, for those places could not touch the spirits of those that claimed them.

I have seen change come to my halls through the passing of eras and accepted them proudly, yet retained my dignity. I have been fortunate in those who have loved me, for they have long known I am not simply wood connected by nail and joint. They have cared for me even as I sheltered them from storms and warmed them in the coldest of times for these are people that remember what once was and treasure it.

I am not simply a house – I am a home, a quiet reminder of days past. I am content as I wait here, bathed in the light of the late afternoon sun. When they return I shall be here, complete in what I have been given by those that have loved me. Perhaps they know the day will come when I will reflect the diligence of their guardianship as well and that the stories of their lives will be whispered to those of the next generation that listen with their heart.

The Return

This should be the first piece I wrote detailing the escapades of Challa whose character sheet is posted somewhere below. I wanted to post as much of this story as possible to demonstrate the interactive nature of the RP environment on a RP server in an MMO. These stories though collaborative were individually added without direction from anyone else- each was the result of another character adding to my own character’s story. This illustrates one of the most amazing things about the interactive community on a RP server. What amazing stories can result from multiple perspectives! I remain thankful to all who took an interest and helped Challa along the way to her ultimate conclusion.

Challa carefully set aside the heavy boiled leather armor, the battered iron plates affixed to the surface dully reflecting the light of her campfire. Her muscles ached and the blisters on her hand had burst, the conditioning oil she was carefully applying to her kit causing them to sting. She slowly rolled her shoulders and paused in her work, gazing at the malignant crimson of the vanishing sun as it dipped down into the horizon far off shore.

It had been a long, bloody day and she had covered more miles and slain more Picts and pirates than she could recollect. From the sandy white beaches of a nearby island to the ruins the feral tribe inhabited inland of Tortage, she felt she had set foot to every possible path and made many of her own twice over. There were so many in the city in need of assistance, though that was fine with her since she needed the coin.

She brushed the pale gold of her hair from her brow then reached down for her sword and diligently set about cleaning the gore from the hilt of the battered, second hand weapon. Her work was comfortable and familiar and she knew it was a task she had done countless times before….though she could not remember how or when she had first learned to do this.

“A good soldier al’ays maintains ‘er kit! Without weapon and armor ye may as well lie back and let ’em have ‘er way with ye!”

Distinctly she heard the deep, gravelly voice in her head, a memory that briefly flashed in the abyss where years of her life had gone missing. She frowned, trying to focus on the memory more closely, searching in vain for the identity of the one who had said it. She sighed, annoyed by the inability to remember as always.

Later she realized she should have sensed it coming. Somehow she knew she WOULD have sensed it ‘before’. As the pain blossomed in crimson tinged waves of blackness from the back of her head, a distant part of her observed that the placement of the blow had been perfect: to the right and base of the skull, away from vulnerable neck vertebrae so no lasting harm would be caused.

Her sword slipped from numb fingers as her body jerked and she fell into unconsciousness. The world went abruptly black.

She was aware she wasn’t alone even before her senses fully returned to her. She remained still where she lay despite the throbbing pain in her head and the coarse rope cruelly binding her arms to her torso and cocooning her legs.

She could smell the ocean distinctly here, though it was tainted by the smell of humanity and sewage and rotting fish. The gulls were quiet and there was a rhythmic creak and lapping of water around solid objects somewhere outside of this dark building. She calculated she was somewhere in Tortage close to the harbor and that night had fully arrived while she was unconscious.

“Don’t bother with any games demon. We know you are awake.”

The voice was low and decidedly masculine, deep with anger and something she couldn’t quite interpret.

She opened her eyes, though in doing so there was little improvement in what she was able to see. The room was dark, with only slight variation of shadow and blackness offering vague definition to her surroundings. It looked to be a warehouse, and her nose itched at the dusty canvas sheets mounded on the floor that mingled with the mustiness of old grain bins. Around her she could make out three figures. Wait…wasn’t there another there to the right? She blinked and strained to see, but if there had been another they seemed to have vanished entirely.

She tried to focus on the one that had spoken and watched his bulk carefully. She made her tone cutting and sharp, giving no hint of her pain or her unease.

“Release me at once. Are you cowards to worry over what a single unarmed woman may do to you?”

One of the shadowed figures shifted and another spoke in a low voice. “Blimey, she sure do sound just like ‘er old self…”

A low growl sounded as the one that had first spoken roughly drug her into a semi seated position to lean against the wooden beam at her back. The sudden change of position set her limbs to screaming as sluggish blood tried to move through her extremities under the merciless cinch of the rope. The bulky figure stepped back and set a lantern on the floor of the warehouse with a muffled clang. He sparked it and adjusted the hood so that the light was kept low, revealing little, yet enough for her captors to get a good look at her.

She blinked quickly trying to adjust to the dim light and stared more closely at them. Her features were set and revealed little more than her anger as her icy blue eyes took in a bit more detail.

Yes, three men for certain. Two in armor, and another in robes, though the dim light offered little beyond knee height of her abductors. Two of them were in heavy armor and wore long, encompassing cloaks open to the front. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck rose and her attention flickered to the deeper shadows for a moment. She swore there was another there watching and silent. She was aware that she was being closely scrutinized.

The same one spoke, though this time not to her. “Are you sure? Is there no means of redemption?”

This time she could identify the tinge of pain and reluctance in the deep voice. The robed figure seemed to fidget and twitch at the long dark robes so that the hem shifted in the fine dust covering the wood plank floor.

There was utter quiet for a span of moments before a disembodied, sexless voice replied. “You know the orders, Marshall. That is simply a demon housed in the shell of what she once was. End it.”

With slow deliberation the soldier that had first spoken to her took a step towards her, the low light climbing upwards along his armored body until his features were revealed to her.

His hair was cropped short and peppered with white and black. Seams and scars creased his countenance though the reminders of old battles simply added to his presence and did nothing to cause aversion. Steel grey eyes stared down at her and his expression was set to reveal nothing…though his eyes gave away his turmoil as the hiss of a sword slowly unsheathing intruded upon the muted sounds of the harbor.

The far door suddenly banged open, causing her captors to jump and turn away from her. She used the distraction to tug vainly at her bindings, causing welts and blood to rise upon abraided skin from the ferocity of her efforts. A stooped old woman shuffled in, breathing hard, her frail voice carrying across the wide space.

“Stop! Use your eyes, you fools! Look upon her; the demon is gone!”

Startled, her captors paused mid-step, weapons lowering as the old spirit woman of Tortage closed the door behind her. She brushed aside the robed fellow and knelt slowly at Challa’s side, her old bones creaking audibly as she began to work at the knots securing the younger woman’s arms.

The older man who had seemed prepared to execute her had turned to search the shadows. “Is this true? Is it possible?” His tone conveyed a rising anger and a demand for truth.

The old woman paused, grunting and sat back on her heel to stare with age clouded eyes directly at a spot of shadows that seemed no different from any other. “You know it be true. Ask yourself why you did not slit her throat when you found her camp, Inquisitor?”

The spirit woman then stared at the robed figure to the right somewhat sternly. “And you. Do you not heed your dreams, priest? You were shown the truth.”

At these words the robed figure stepped into the light, revealing the visage of a young man whose coloration and features seemed to indicate a mixed Stygian heritage. “Gods be praised if it is true…yes…yes…I had thought it merely wishful thinking…but…is it possible? Can it have been cast from her? I look in her eyes and….. it is true! It is her own spirit that shines there!”

The priest made an inarticulate sound of joy even as a flash of guilt touched his expression. He came to Challa quickly and knelt, beginning to work at the knots binding her. His cool touch and a soft prayer immediately began to leech the pain from her abused body.

A brief fission of chill caressed Challa’s cheek as the shadows seemed to part to reveal a final form. Soundlessly it stepped forward, pausing at the edge of the light.

“Interesting. So it is true. Some have been freed of the demons they carry.” The voice was distinctly feminine and silky and very, very dangerous. A subtle movement invited the dim light to caress the mottled grey leather clad curves of the female assassin.

“What? You knew there was a chance she was cleansed and you were going to have me put her down despite that?!”

Though low to avoid drawing the attention of any from outside, the soldier’s voice was filled with rage. His gauntleted fist shifted on his bared weapon and Challa knew it was only extreme discipline that held him from striking the assassin.

The woman shrugged slightly, the gesture almost careless. “I couldn’t be sure. But let’s not linger on what might have happened and deal with the change to the situation, shall we, Marshall?”

Glittering dark eyes studied Challa as the first ropes came free. “So nice to see you have returned to us largely unscathed Challa. Your holiday however is over and the King has need of you.”

The light was adjusted to offer a wider pool of warmth. For the first time Challa was able to fully look upon those who had abducted her. She stifled a groan as the bindings around her arms came free and a surge of blood flowed back in a rush.

“You know my name.”

It was a statement fraught with questions.

The other soldier stepped forward, and she noted he was much closer to her own age. His brown hair was neatly tied back and his hazel eyes were cautious though a broadening smile creased his craggy features. He didn’t speak but pulled out a dagger and began to saw at the thick ropes binding her legs. On the shining plate covering his chest she noticed a proud crest over his heart. It was small and set upon a raised, round circle of gold affixed to the meticulously polished armor, much less flashy or noticable than a field unit identifier.

King’s Guard. The name flashed in the blackness that was within her mind and the ensuing emotions that filled her breast caught her breath and almost made her gasp. A fierce joy that made her want to embrace them all mingled with a sense of belonging and trust that filled her then clashed with a terrible guilt and a snaking sensation of shame. She had failed…something…something important….and then it was gone and she was simply confused and unsettled by the associations that had rocked her. The old spirit woman squeezed her shoulder comfortingly, then stepped back to observe the others with calm, unblinking eyes.

The assassin spoke, her lips curving into a slight smile. “I see you are not quite yourself. I wonder…what do you remember?” Dark eyes studied her and slender fingers idly caressed the hilt of a dagger at her hip.

The old woman spoke up again, her thin voice weary and subdued. “Her memory is gone. She cannot help you, Inquisitor, not in that way. Maybe in time. But not now. She does not even know who you are.”

At this the older soldier approached Challa and knelt to her side. He carefully took Challa’s hand in his, engulfing it in the thick metal plated glove that protected his hand. “Forgive me for what I intended, my friend. I strove only to do my duty to my King.”

Challa shook her head slowly then licked her dry lips. “Then there is nothing to forgive.” The large hand around hers squeezed slightly, careful not to harm her and he swallowed heavily then averted his eyes and stood. He placed his sword in its sheath with a decisive snick and inclined his head, his voice again firm.

“It is as you say.”

The assassin seemed to ponder the situation a moment then turned her dark gaze to the older soldier. “I suppose there is nothing to debrief, so let us get her functioning again. I believe she would do nicely, don’t you?”

He frowned briefly and studied Challa a moment. “Yes…it may be just the thing she needs to recover.” He nodded brusquely to the other soldier who carefully and respectfully helped Challa to her feet, allowing her legs to regain sensation now that they were free of the rope.

The older man paused as she gathered herself and faced them, cautious but filled with questions. He seemed to stand straighter as she studied him and he began to speak.

“I am High Marshall Martin LeBlanc of the King’s Guard. Hunt Master Torrinal is the lad beside you, and our priestly companion is Tahj, both of whom also serve in the Guard.”

His eyes flickered briefly to the woman and her lips curved in amusement as she listened almost expectantly.

“The…woman…serves the King as well. The dream speaker is correct and she is an Inquisitor. Her name is not important to you for now.”

He shifted his feet as if uncomfortable with something that remained unspoken or merely as a means to express his discomfort in the presence of the silent assassin. He gazed directly at her however though he continued speaking to Challa.

“You may trust her, for the King does.” The statement was almost a challenge and the assassin gazed at him a moment then gave a slight bow before stepping back to watch.

“We are aware these are…unusual circumstances. Know that before…well…that you also have taken the oath to the King. You also are a member of the Guard, Challa. There is great need for you even now though I know you have been greatly weakened. Will you resume your service?”

He studied her and it seemed each gaze of those gathered here burned into her soul. Confusion and something akin to panic caught at her throat. Her eyes were wide a moment looking at each of them until her gaze caught and held upon the subtle crest that marked each of these strangers. A sudden sense of rightness flooded her and she knelt upon the rough planks, her head bowed. Words spilled from her lips that she did not realize she had known.

“I serve the King and the King’s law, and his interests above all other obligations put upon me. My sword will undo the wicked, my shield serve as his protection when called upon. I will not falter though the final death lay before me. He is the light and the hope, and I shall proudly stand with the Guard before him against all who offer threat.”

A brief moment of silence followed her utterance, her companions startled by the sound of the ceremonial vow from the lips of one who should no longer recall it. The Marshall spoke again, completing the brief ceremony.

“Challa of Aquilonia, you are bound by your oath before the gods and we who will battle beside you. Take up your weapons, your skills, your heart, and your spirit, and stand amongst us as a shining member of the King’s Guard.”

As Challa rose a chorus of voices split the silence of the night in tribute, paying no heed to the sleeping city and what attention may be drawn. Joy and pride flared in her breast with a rush of fierceness. She was no longer lost and alone; she had become a part of something grand and beautiful and ….right.

“Long Live the King! Eternal honor to the King’s Guard! Hail to Commander Challa!”

A Cimmerian Bride

Memories had come back to her bit by bit as time passed. She remembered the fierce joy of running wild in the fields, spoilt and indulged by her parents. She recalled her father laughingly calling her his ‘little barbarian’ as he would swing her up to his shoulder to ride there safe and secure, her tiny feet dangling and stained green by the grass of the meadow. She remembered being safe and secure, and how she had been so certain nothing could go wrong with her papa to watch over her. She remembered being loved.

So many beautiful images newly revealed to her mind as she grew stronger, yet none of them could compare to the bliss she knew in her recent days. Yet even more intoxicating were the nights…

She looked over at him, in their bed. A restless sleeper by nature she would often wake simply to look at him surprised and delighted all over again by his place in her life. Her guilt had long faded, and she accepted that while her sleeping arrangements were not at all proper for a Lady, her lifestyle as a soldier allowed her certain freedoms.

It had taken her several days to stop blushing at the raised brows and wide grins of her guardsmen when Brutalis would walk down the stairs with her in the morning to break their fast before hunting and riding patrol. At first she had felt slightly defensive. The sleeping arrangements were quite proper and their mutual restraint honored the ideals of their betrothal state. She had told him she would not surrender to him fully until their vows were exchanged properly, and while he had been confused and surprised by this, he had agreed to honor her traditions.

It had become much more difficult of late, not only because she had grown accustomed to him in her bed and the shadow of impropriety had diminished in her mind, but also because the very nature of their desire for one another was increasing over time. Yet both remained firm, one or the other always calling a stop to things when intimacy became too close to that line they had agreed upon.  

With a guilty smile she admitted to herself that more often of late it was she that had tested him, and she had taken delight in his frustration for more. Weeks had passed in this manner; both going about their tasks and hunting together when possible, then meeting at night in campsites, their hut on the lake, or at the keep.

She softly traced her fingertip over his lips as he slept, smiling as he stirred and moved closer to her and tightened his arm around her. He had spoken to her wistfully of marriage in the way of his people: a man and a woman speaking their vows one heart to another, soul to soul, witnessed by Crom alone and bound by sacred oath. The union would be made and there would be no need for registering or ceremonies or the hundred other things required of an Aquilonian pairing. She had felt at heart that she was married to this man already and was impatient about the pomp and ceremony that would be expected for a woman of her heritage in taking a husband.

And so tonight here they were hidden in their furs in this wild garden in the middle of her beloved Aquilonia. Tonight they had been married by the customs dear to him and bound together as man and wife. The need for another wedding to satisfy tradition was a distant consideration now, for she was his entirely now under the distant eyes of a god she knew little of, and a fierce people she had come to love through her guardsmen and her Brute. Tonight she was a Cimmerian wife and there had been no more waiting and no stopping what had transpired. She knew no guilt or shame, only a new and intimate understanding of herself as a woman and to what purpose she had been fashioned by the gods. He had awakened this in her and for the first time in her life she lingered on thoughts that had nothing to do with duty to her King and to her guardsmen. For this night there had only been a man and a woman amid the rich loamy earth and the sweet grass with the heady perfume of Aquilonian roses in the air. Their oaths had been spoken and then sealed by the sweet mingling of their flesh until their spirits had touched and joined together even as did their bodies.

She smiled again as she looked at him. Exhausted but her heart too full for sleep, she slid down into the furs and kissed him sweetly, curling her body around his. The sun was just beginning to rise when she finally drifted off to sleep. For this one perfect moment in time there was no battle to fight, no enemies to face, and the best and brightest part of humanity held sway in a secret garden deep inside the fair city of Aquilonia.

Love and Tradition

The confines of the candle lit study muffled the soft curse. The flames in the fireplace flared briefly as yet another expensive parchment fed the orange blaze, and shadow swirled with light through the room and along the slender form of the woman seated at a nearby desk. She was scowling, her smooth brow creased as she eyed a clean sheet yet unblemished on her desktop.

Sensitive command documents from the King and her superior officers in the High Guard were pushed aside, rolled maps partially unfurled on the ground around her and she stared fiercely at the blank paper.

Though her armor and sword were set aside elsewhere and she was clad in a simple shift, her expression was touched with the resolve and fierceness that an enemy on the field would recognize. And this focus was directed to the simple sheet of parchment before her….

She sighed, shoulders easing and slumping as she rubbed at her face, then suddenly laughed. The sound matched the transformation of her face, her amusement with herself causing the flash of a dimple in one cheek and a peculiar radiance to return to her eyes.

“This is not so hard…just words on a parchment. Write them and be done with it!” she chided herself. Her voice was soft and she ran her fingers through the shoulder length gold of her hair. Her pale gaze strayed to the braided leather around her wrist, an intricate and beautiful twining of supple leather that had rested there now for several weeks. She smiled again, glowing in a way that had little to do with the light of the fire or the dance of candle flames.

She turned the soft leather circlet on her wrist, small tufts of fur still clinging to the individual strips of leather in places. She remembered spending hours for several nights after long patrols, teasing the strips of snow leopard pelt he had used to bind that first letter into this simple ornament.
Her Brute.

The smile that seemed often on her face bloomed again simply thinking of him. Yet closely behind came a return of panic and excitement that had become familiar in recent days. A wedding…their wedding…!

What did she know of these events? She was a soldier and no longer given to the grand events of court and the intricacies that usually bound such things. How was she supposed to go about this?

A brief flare of sadness touched her heart, dimming the glow of happiness that filled her. Though she could barely remember her face, she yearned for her long deceased lady-mother in a way she had not since she had been a child. She wondered what she would think of this man her daughter intended to wed, and whose children she prayed that one day she would bear.

Close on the heels of thoughts of her mother came memories of her father, and images flashed of him…strong and noble, equipped for war on his horse…practicing in the courtyard with the household guards or friends from his unit. She remembered the whispered and tender words between him and her mother each time his duties took him on a mission…and she knew her mother would have understood. Her own heart had led her to marry a simple military officer of a lesser house, and she had turned her back on a family that had disowned her for choosing her own love over the politically advantageous pairing she had been intended for. She knew instinctively her father would have approved of her Brute and she smiled wistfully at the thought of what it would have been like for them to meet.

It was her only sadness these days, knowing such a meeting would never take place. It was perhaps a more poignant emotion as these memories had only recently been returned to her after shedding the cursed mark that had been branded to her breast and marked her as a slave to a madman.

 

he knew who she was now, what she had been destined for, and once again had a sense of herself. Her shame and the tightly locked away horrors that had befallen her at her capture had come along with the happier things of her life to paint a vivid picture of her past.

Yet it was her future that beckoned now…and this sheet of parchment that must be written. Though it should not be her task, and by rights that of her father or a male member of her blood, it was up to her to post the banns and inform not only her troops but the court of the King she was to be wed.
She steeled herself, taking up her quill as she would a weapon…and began to write.

*****************************

Let it be known that by agreement of the parties representing Cimmerian Sir Brutalis of Invicta, ranked Officer of the guild of mercenaries, and Lady Challa of fair Aquilonia, Commander of Kings Guard, founder of the City of Fas; that both Houses shall be joined in lawful marriage by the allowance of the gods and the King.

All progeny of this union shall have an heir’s rights to the properties of each, and shall be recognized by the Court as legitimate offspring. Dowry and Brideprice shall be negotiated prior to the wedding and the King given fair share of both sums as is ordained by law.

 

******************************

She set aside the quill and exhaled. It was done. She eyed the parchment a moment, marveling at the idea of it, then rose from her seat, declaration in hand. She strode to the door of the small study and opened it, greeting the courier and handing him the document as he bowed respectfully.

“See this to the Master of Lineage in Aquilonia with all care and haste. I shall inform our trader to dispense the appropriate fees for his services.”

If the young man had any thought on his task there was no sign of it. He tucked the legal document into his messenger satchel with care, weaving a small cantrip over the clasp as it was secured. He bowed again and turned, breaking into a run and headed to his horse to make the journey to the capital with all speed.

Challa watched him and listened to his booted feet on the stair, rubbing her fingertips on her simple shift. It was done…set in motion now. The news would sweep through the city of Aquilonia and be posted here once the proper seals were affixed and notarized.

Now there was the ceremony itself to lend her attention to….

She groaned, turning back into the study and the innocuous stacks of blank parchment awaiting lists and supplies for the event. Not for the first time, she wished for the simple traditions Brutalis had spoken of particular to his own people.

 

—————————————————————

The official clattered to a halt, pulling his pale mount in to a quick stop before the notice board in the City of Fas.

Guardsmen watched him with open curiosity as he slid from his saddle in practiced ease and whispered a simple incantation over the clasp of his satchel. He pulled a crisp parchment from its depths and affixed it to the board in a prominent position. Seals and flourishes were affixed to the declaration, including the seal of the King himself, marking this communication as one of special importance.

Without a word he was back in his saddle and had turned his dancing mount, heading out at a gallop and intent on his next mission.

The light of torches here lit the bold words declaring the news that the Lady Challa and Sir Brutalis were to be wed, and that the intent of lawful union had been approved by the Office of Lineage in Aquilonia.

In the towering Keep above the square Challa watched nervously from a window, awaiting the reaction of her troops who had gathered around the posted document….

The Oathbreaker

Most of the small village was abed with those few who had reason to be up having long since taken refuge from the unrelenting downpour in either the tavern or the more sheltered places away from the square.

The rider passed through the gate without a challenge from the sentry, the horse plodding in a tired way, head lowered and its hide covered in mud. Upon the rider too, the mud of a hundred miles clung, cloak slicked to the rump of her mount and heavily armored form sheeting tiny rivers of water that must have long penetrated through to her skin. Her head was bare and sleek from the rain and the skin of her face was a deathly white. The guard recognized the tattered tabard she wore naming her a soldier of the King’s Guard, but the look in her eyes made him step back and consider calling an alarm.

She swayed with the near exhausted steps of her mount, though her body retained the erect posture bred from years of military discipline. Her features seemed carved alabaster glistening wet in the rain; hard and flawlessly molded. Only her eyes indicated there was a spark of life within her yet and when they passed over him he was certain that she did not really see him…and he knew with no shame that he was glad of it. There was neither human spirit there nor any indication of her own weariness. The brightness of fever burned there but even that was not enough to warm the deep winter of her gaze.

The guard hunkered in his booth, watching the rider pass and direct her horse to the notices posted at the center of the square. She circled it once then pulled her beast to a stop. For several moments she seemed to stare at something there. Briefly she swayed and he was certain she would topple but instead she leaned down and violently ripped a very official looking document from the notice board. She pulled herself erect in the saddle again and tugged her horse back around toward the gate once more. Ribbons fluttered on the wax impregnated document, her gauntleted fist crumpling it as she neared him once more. Her mount gratefully paused by his guardhouse and her gaze fell on him directly.

When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and raw, and she struggled to make her words distinct despite the thickness in her throat. “There will be no marriage. Tell your crier…he is an Oathbreaker…and has taken another.”

She released the now crumpled document allowing it to fall into the mud outside his doorway. The bright and official looking seals were broken now and mud and rain began to swallow the parchment as if some vital magic that had preserved it was suddenly banished. The guard said nothing and simply watched as the woman again pushed her mount forward and through the gate, into the darkness and wilds of the border lands beyond.

Duty

They were a somber group that night. None of them quite knowing what to say to her; quieter than usual and minus the teasing and good natured harassment that was typical when they gathered. A part of her wished she had not run into them at all and she had stayed out on her solitary patrols. Killing bandits had been a pleasure and had worked out much of her rage.

Now she was simply tired and sore and sick, and all she wanted was a hot bath and a glass of wine or two at the inn. She couldn’t go back to Fas yet…not yet. Her bed still smelled of him and his clothing and gear were likely still there among her own belongings. She wished somehow she could avoid going back all together and could just forget the last months of her life. It was a brief thought and cowardly. She recognized this, but there it was.

Ophion and Thorious both arrived at her side as she spoke to the trader, almost as if they knew she would be there somehow. The svelt demonologist said nothing but looked into Challa’s eyes as an understanding passed between them. Thorious shifted uncomfortably and tried to smile, then took refuge in the familiar by showing off a new blade. Challa lapsed into the polite and genteel role she could pull on like a second skin, nodding and offering the appropriate comments.

She sensed the next three arrive before she saw them. Eevo was there along with two other of her Guardsmen, and it occurred to her they had been watching the roads and waiting for her. For a moment tears almost choked her sore throat, but her eyes remained dry. She agreed to the offer of a drink and left the trading center with them.

More of her Guard joined them as they made their way through the streets, and a few heads turned, watching them. She wondered how soon she would be able to make a polite break and find some solitude and began to consider her excuses as they turned the corner of the final block before the tavern.

Challa halted abruptly as another group nearly collided with them, a muffled yelp coming from Ophion as Thorious nearly ran the delicate looking woman over. Challa was weary enough to simply stand for a moment, watching the weapons of the other group come quickly to hand. Expressions of surprise touched each face.

Another fight. Good. Fighting made her forget. She dropped her hand to her sword, shrugging her shield into place…

And the woman that seemed to lead the other group stepped forward and bowed in a graceful manner intricate in formality and courtliness.

“The Obsidian Flame is gone, and we have come to swear our loyalty to the King’s Guard.”

The others followed the woman’s lead, kneeling before her startled Guardsmen and declaring their loyalty. Challa heard the next words and marveled quietly at the odd humor of the gods.

“We are at your disposal, Commander.”

At that moment she managed finally to close the door on her grief. What killing and physical exhaustion had been unable to do…this meeting had accomplished. Here was what her life was about. Those that stood at her back…and now these newcomers who had come to stand with them against the storm. It was not for her to be a wife or mother. She was meant to lead these people and help make them strong. Duty.It was all she needed.

For the King. For all the people of the lands. For hope.

She sheathed her weapon and slung her shield onto her back. She eyed the group gravely, her fist pressing over her heart and her head bowing.

“We are honored. Welcome amongst us.”

Rest For the Weary

She knew her condition worsened, yet she was unconcerned by it. For several days after she returned it had seemed to fade to a minor nuisance- her throat had been sore and she knew the fever had lingered, climbing and falling from hour to hour and passing into the days and nights. The worried glances of her soldiers and the appearance at her door of first one then another of the healers in the unit had only served to drive her back out to patrols where she could be alone.

She threw herself into her work, rarely sleeping, eating less, and drinking more than she ever had before, though she told herself it was because it soothed her throat and chased away the ache in her head. At times it seemed the only way she could sleep and at others she admitted to herself it was only when she drank that she could forget.

It was never a visible manifestation. She was not a sloppy drunk, nor an emotional one. She went about it quietly and discreetly striving for a state of numbness. When she woke in the morning, the sickness of being hung-over and her already diminishing health combined to turn her mind from those places she could not bear to go.

Yet always she rose and remained true to her routine. She was constant in her duty and steady in her guardianship of her troops. She saw to the running of her guild in the same conscientious manner she had always displayed, though she was more removed from them and was always alone if she could manage it.

It would not have been so bad perhaps, if the information had not been so quick to come to her no matter where she was. There seemed to be no end to his lack of discretion or those willing to provide details. She knew that for as many that offered expressions of outrage on her behalf, there were others who enjoyed her humiliation and disgrace.

She swayed in her saddle and leaned over, hacking deeply, clutching at the pommel. Horse stopped in his meandering walk through Lacheish Plains and turned to look at her, his ears flickering. It had been hours since his rider had directed his path and he had been going as he pleased with no protest from his mistress. Weakly she nudged him as her coughing fit eased and he obediently moved along once again. Her vision blurred and she felt in turn she was freezing to death and would exhaust herself from shivering, and then would as abruptly be on fire and unable to stand the thick layers of leather and steel encasing her body.

When the attack came she was slow to respond. It was Horse that reacted first without direction from her. He struck out with his hooves as the outlaws rose from ambush with a cry, three of them bristling with weapons and reeking of malice. Had she been healthy, this would not have been a fight of any significance and their lives quickly forfeit for attacking her. As it was her first reaction was to clutch at her saddle horn instead of her weapons, trying to stay on the back of her heaving and kicking mount. She became aware that somehow she was suddenly watching it all from outside of herself, and did not even feel the bite of blades cutting through her armor or the arrows that began to bristle from her body.

She was shocked by her own appearance, and did not recognize herself for a moment. Slenderness had become gauntness and every bone showed in her face. Bruises showed beneath her eyes from weeks of sleeplessness, but most of all her loss of conditioning showed in the fumbling attempts she made to draw her sword and fight back.  She fell from Horse’s back and hit the ground, and the sudden jarring impact seemed to pull her back into her flesh. The breathtaking awareness of pain and injury seemed to break her out of her lethargy and she began to strike back with furious blows as she struggled to her feet in the cumbersome armor.

She saw the archer grab for the reins of her rider-less horse, his greed distracting him from his attack as glee showed on his rough features. The brief reprieve allowed her to slam her shield into one of her attackers, knocking him to the ground, then turn to face the other that had been at her back.  She knew she was bleeding badly, and the short burst of strength she had found was nearly depleted. Grimly she rained blows upon him, driving him to his knees. She saw his eyes widen as he realized his fate even before the final swing came that severed his head from his body. A gushing fountain sprayed up from his neck, painting her steel clad body crimson and spattering gore upon her cheek.

 With a savage snarl she turned, aware her strength had departed her and that her shield suddenly had the weight of a giant oak strapped to her arm. She noted the expression of horror and surprise frozen on the decapitated head at her feet as she stepped forward, the heavy steel of her booted foot crunching in the bones of his skull into the frigid ground like a winter squash. Somehow she managed to throw up a guard to block a blow that would have done the same to her. The impact of steel on steel sent a numbing shock up through her arm in her weakened grip and she barely retained her hold on her blade. She moved with the direction of his strike, her breathing labored and choked, motions clumsy from fatigue.

Dancing…she was dancing…swirling on the ballroom floor as the members of the court pointed and whispered realizing whose daughter she was. She smiled triumphantly and her partner twirled with her in his arms….

An explosion of pain came as the hammer in the offhand of her opponent struck a glancing blow to her skull. Abruptly the feverish images were banished and her dance became a grim pairing with the Reaper himself.

Nearly blinded by the blood and stars filling her eyes she fell to her knee, shield catching a powerful overhead blow that came from his main hand. Sparks and shrieking metal sounds filled the air and she was thrown to the side and had to support herself with her sword arm, her weapon still clutched in her fist.

Her attacker drew his sword arm back, a smile of victory already on his face, his expression cruel….

….when a furious squeal came from behind him and a mighty hoof the size of a small boulder caught him from the side.  It was all she needed and she reacted with all the speed and power she had left, righting herself and slicing her sword deep into the armored belly of her adversary in one smooth motion that belied her trembling exhaustion.

His scream was high-pitched and penetrated the drumming of her own blood in her ears, and she struggled weakly to pull her blade free as he clutched at it where it sprouted from between his lower ribs.

One more…there was one more…she could hear him cursing and struggling with his bow as she staggered around to face him, and her fading sight noted the chunk that Horse had taken from his cheek. The grisly wound showed his teeth inside his skull and she could clearly see his tongue as he screamed invectives at both her and her mount.

She was so tired. It would be so nice to lie down. She would stop hurting then…if only she could sleep…

Dimly she was aware of a voice issuing sharp commands somewhere in her head. Her lips whispered the litany aloud as she took another dogged step towards the archer who had raised his bow and knocked his arrow. “Move Challa…move…”

She took another step, teeth bared with the effort, her sword tip coming free of the corpse of the brigand at her feet.

The first arrow struck her high and to the right biting through her armor and into the flesh of her shoulder. She was knocked back and almost fell but doggedly took another step towards the man as he knocked another arrow. She saw the fear in his eyes when she did not go down and he fired again, this time the arrow taking her in the thigh. Yet still she moved forward, pulling back her sword and lugging her shield, trying to pull it into place to cover her body. He scrambled back, reaching for yet another arrow as the bloodied guardian lurched towards him, relentless and unstoppable.

It seemed all else in the world slowed and there were only the two of them in a macabre sort of intimacy. The landscape seemed to take on an eerie brilliance and the cold seemed to deepen and invade her spirit. She charged, bellowing, every last ounce of will brought forth from her bleeding body, even as his final arrow flew, striking her over the top of her shield and sinking into her heart.

She was distantly aware that her momentum had skewered the archer, pinning him on her sword as she collapsed on top of him. She rolled off of him, onto her back under the cold blue sky, a final breath of air passing her lips in a weary sigh as darkness claimed her.

A sudden cold wind from the Cimmerian plains brushed away the golden hair from her staring eyes that now reflected the vast empty heavens over head, then swirled through the boulders and crevices of Crom’s Rock…for it was here at the place where she had been born into immortality, that she now died. If the wind was truly the voice of Crom as local tribesmen believed, the Aquilonian woman crumpled on the ground was beyond listening to His words.

Horse stood over his mistress’s body, his reins dragging in the dirt, patiently waiting for her to rise again as she had always done in the past.  Shadows gathered and night fell and still she did not come to soothe him. As morning dawned he turned his head toward Fas making his way home without her.

 

(WB the player of Lirio) Someone Watching

H er people had been in Cimmerian for some time now. They hunted, helped and fought for the northmen, even while they themselves were hunted for their aid. Stygians, Aquilonians, and Cimmerians had answered the call to hold the line, that they were Marauders only seemed to add further difficulty to duty. They fought still, their resolve unshakeable, in spite of their persecutors. A lifetime of persecution and exile had taught them fortitude in the face of solitude.

So Lirio was in the area, wandering through the snow and plains in her thick furs and hood. Dark flesh was visible between the straps of cloth and animal skins. Her beads clicked and clattered in her hair, only her lips were seen and a dainty hand holding onto the pack she kept over one shoulder. Then eyes were visible – piercing and silver as they stopped cold, regarding the body upon the ground.

She saw the body, then she saw the people around it, robbing or preparing to. Without a word those intense eyes lit up with an ethereal light instantaneously. Her hand loosed its hold on her pack, dropping it to the ground as she spread them both beside her and walked forward.

They did not seem to notice her at first, but when they did it was a myriad of barks at one another to dispatch her so they could get back to their find. Lirio’s half-masked face remained neutral, fully without fear or hatred.

It remained as passive when she took the first life of her attacker. He came with a sword to cleave down the little figure before him, and he was immediately engulfed in a white fire that sent him screaming and tumbling in a frantic heap on the road. It was only at the sound of his cries that the others took greater notice of her. She continued walking, aware of the dead silence now with exception to the crunch of stone and sticks under her fur lined boots.

They all rose, weapons drawing, lips licking.

She stopped so close to them, making it clear she had come for the body and its possessions. Her silence was all she offered them, hoping that they would take the time to leave on their own… and not in pieces.

Things never seemed to work out the way one wants.

Spears, swords and daggers would come at her in the hope that one might score the wound that would drop the priestess. Lirio only threw back her cloak and shifted her stance as she thrust one fist up… then plunged it down before her face. Time itself seemed to stop. It sounded like thunder had bellowed around them; the earth trembled in the wake of the power she called down to stun them all.

Both hands then drew together, her hood falling back to reveal the face beneath, all her hair whipping around her head as a wind seemed to circle the air.

No. Not wind. It was sheer power that came to her. She drew energy around her like one draws a cloak. Their eyes widened even in their dazed state when they heard the Light gathering to her call… then both her fists  flew back out as a second thunder clap of power took their lives.

They crumbled around her like nothing more than plants before the scythe.

She turns her attention back to the fallen guardian lying on the road, and her eyes soften with immediate sorrow. Lirio comes to quietly kneel by the body, looking the woman over. Her slender hands stray out to scoop the other woman’s up, feeling for warmth, for life… anything. Her eyes close then as she turns her face away.

When they reopen, it is a cold stare at Crom’s rock. If she had the words she might curse him, him and all the other Gods. If Lirio knew any insults or curses, perhaps she might have said them now. But she did not. She only scooted closer to gently brush aside the hair from this person’s face. Then, tenderly, she slipped her hands under the woman and began to try and lift her.

Tears welled in her eyes and a choked cry of frustration, anguish, and simple turmoil escaped her. She did not know what she said, but she snapped something aloud that brought her mare galloping to her. With some fumbling Lirio managed to pull the woman onto her horse’s back and collected her own pack she’d dropped earlier. Lirio would guide her mount down the roads then, eyes watching warily.

“Not yet, Guardian. Not yet.”

Horse

The riderless horse made his way to the gates as he had many times before. He stood patiently while the Guards took his broken reins and pulled him into the gates of the city, calling out loudly as they recognized the Commander’s mount.

There was a flurry of activity and a stable boy ran up, taking ‘Horse’ by his lead as the guards on duty removed the bloodied saddle and examined the arrow that remained stuck into the thick leather. The implications of the gore flecked tack and the shallow cuts on the pale hide of the big stallion gave cause for alarm.

“Cimmerian craftsmanship by the looks of it and not too well made. Bandits perhaps…” The lieutenant held the arrow, examining it with a measured glance.

Horse followed the young stablehand willingly, leaving the crowd behind him and intent on the oats being promised him by the boy who coaxed the weary animal along. He was home now and there would be fresh hay and careful brushing and his two-legged herd would keep the wolves away. He lipped at the boy’s hair, his tail swishing slowly as he walked obediently along.

The woman would come see him at his stall soon and bring him an apple or some other treat like she always did. His ears flickered expectantly toward the keep as they passed it, a low whiney escaping his deep chest though his senses told him she was not there. 

He would wait for her; he was a patient animal. They had many miles yet to ride together.

(WB the player of Eevo) The Search Begins

Eevo was quietly toiling in his private room in the library of Fas. This day seemed no different then any other but little did he know everything was about to change.

A loud and abrupt knocking at the door broke the silence of his work. The door flung open and one of the city guard rushed through the open doorway. Out of Breath with sweat dripping from his chin, the guard paused to catch up with himself.

“This had better be important soldier,” the necromancer spoke calmly.

“Master Arcanist, the field marshall is away on patrols, I… I didnt know who else to go to…” the look of fear and confusion in the soldiers face explained all.

All at once Eevo choked as if his heart had coughed up into his throat. ” The Mistress?” he spoke with dread in his voice.

“Her horse arrived unguided at the gates no more then 15 minutes ago… The was blood splatter on the animal… a lot of blood sir,” the guard said, his voice still trembling.

The Necromancer paused for a brief moment considering his Mistress’ fate and feeling the pain of loss he knew so well. He raised his hand to his face, rubbing at his moustache and regaining his composure.

“Wake the regiment!” Eevo commanded the Guard. ” Every last man we can muster. I want riders ready in 5 minutes, at the gate. Any man late will answer to me, he sneered.” His face grew angry and dark.

“Yes Master Arcanist!” he answered as he simultaneoulys swung around and charged out the door.

Eevo immeadiately began a chant he had used so many times before and the darkness began to creep into the room swirling about him. “Naktowet naktowet” he cried over and over and the bodies he kept amongst his private room sprung to life. A dozen minions of all kinds, life stealers, corruptors, harvesters and mutilators all stood at attention. Blood, flesh and bile dripped from the undead as they awaited their masters command. He flashed a look at the gruesome army, his eyes glowing with a red fire, all at once they flung themselves and their dripping carcasses out the door. Eevo followed after them pausing at the door to grab his cloak and stopping and staring at a mass which sat in the center of the table under a black silk cloth. He then turned out the door and down the stairs.

Moments later he stood at the Gates of Fas surrounded by every last member of the city’s guard and regiment that was not on patrol. Quiet whispers crept through the ranks as they waited for the Arcanist to speak. A few minutes earlier the Necromancers army of dead had rushed through the gates, this combined with the whispers and call to arms fed the growing fear amongst the troops. After pausing to speak with one of the captains Eevo stepped up onto some of the left over stone which had not been used up on the walls.

“Our Mistress is not among us. Her horse has returned without its master and has seen a bloody battle. Ive compiled a list of the Mistress’ known routes and places of interest. Captains! he commanded as he handed out lists to each of them. Prepare your riders and give them each their own area to cover. If the Mistress is wounded she must be found straight away. We search every corner of this countryside until we find her. You will continue to search until I have called you back!”

“Soldier,” he turned and spoke to a ranger to his right. ” You will find the field Marshal and inform him of these events.” The ranger quickly took to his horse and was off.

Turning his attention once more to the regiment his black hair flowing about his shoulders, ” Find her! Find her NOW! he cried out and the troops shot into action, each man to his task. Never before had Eevo commanded the men like this and each of them felt the dread in his voice and knew that failure was not an option.

Moments past and all had left through the gates. Eevo stood silently looking up at the Library from where he had come such a short while ago. Horses could be heard in the distance, the sounds slowly fading.  All at once his thoughts turned to anger as he saw Challa in pain and death. He could not bare to think of it and tried to wash the thoughts from his mind. As a child who could not forget a nightmare, nor could he wipe her bloodied image from his head. His mind racing he started towards the Library, “if they cannot find her I will,” he thought as he headed for the Keep.