Good evening everyone, my name is Casus Belli! This is my first post here in the wonderful User...
"Vigil" [OC] Fantasy/Adventure
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1.1 - Rite of Passage
Casus Belli
In the Shadow of the Mouse
- Location
- Florida
PART I
1 - Rite of Passage
Valda stood before the altar, staring at her mother. Far above them, the violet moon burned, illuminating them like a nighttime sun with cold unlight. Two torches fought the baleful glow, fitfully radiating warm orange light and heat.
"This is necessary, my dearest," said Valda's mother. She ran gentle fingers through the oil-slicked hair of her slain husband. "He needs a sacrifice if he's going to get to Fraszheim, assassinated as he was." She touched her husband's chest over his heart, brushing aside decadent silks and jewelry which adorned his corpse.
Valda stared stone-faced at her mother, holding back tears, and she clutched her thick fur coat with white knuckles. Her mother serenely closed her eyes and poured the ritual oils onto herself, her dusky skin shined black in the violet moon's unlight.
"Keep Lashland safe," she said as she embraced Valda, warm, despite the biting wind. Her mother's hands streaked Valda's hair with the oils, and left her tunic stained with the sweet smell of herbal essence. Valda's mind was filled with charred flesh and sizzling oil. Her eyes prickled with tears.
"Mother, I-" began Valda. Her voice caught.
"Hush, Valda, this is what our God demands, and we must obey. My sacrifice will propel us to Fraszheim."
Valda bit her fist as her mother serenely climbed up the altar, seating herself at her father's side.
Her mother did not scream as the fire was lit, though Valda failed to stifle her own agonized wail.
As flames licked over her skin, her mother let out a final, keening sound. Her voice pierced like the sharpest of winter gales even as the crackling of the fire drowned it out. Her mother's brown eyes gazed into Valda's until the bright golden flames engulfed her completely, and the tongues of fire reached high into the cold air on the cliff, fuelled by the mystically empowered oils.
A wizened oracle led Valda to the edge of the cliff, which overlooked the dark water far below. Here, she would wait to watch the dawn. She doubted she could have gotten to the edge alone, in her state.
She stood in silence as the wind of the Inner Sea carried away her parent's ashes. She shook, not only from the cold.
The air chilled her to the bone, despite the heavy furs, but she imagined that her parents were embracing her, their warmth warding off the icy cold of the morning.
In the distance, glinting off of snow on the highest mountains of the Island of Ghosts, the first sliver of the sun began its slow but inexorable rise. The colors of the sky began to shift, black gradually giving way to deep purple in its lightening.
She felt as if the sky should stay dark forever.
The Oracles lit incense and began a chorus which droned in the early dawn, flitting through the breeze. It filled the air ethereally around her. The eerie not-quite-purple unlight of the violet moon faded in the piercing light of the sun, following the endless cycle set in motion by the creators.
The Oracle completed the slow ritual chant in the ancient ronan language. Valda thought of her mother, about how she had protected and educated Valda and her brother.
How would she be able to achieve even a fraction of what her mother or father had?
An oracle placed a great bronze lamp in the fire, and Valda turned around to look at the pyre once more. She stared at the family treasure in the center of the fire, a gleaming cylinder. The relic had in delicate traceries etched into the metal, with ripples of a darker color throughout, result of slight melting on its surface over centuries of use. The flame within had been alight as long as Valda could remember. It would carry the remainders of Valda's parent's souls to the great brazier at Tunvyr, where they would join the soul of the family.
By the time the sun had risen over the mountains, many of the commoners and lesser vassals had begun the trek down the cliff. They returned to the caravan that would carry the funeral party on the first leg of their journey home.
Only the Oracles and close friends remained. Valda's head pounded, two days of fasting having taken their toll on her body. She'd always been aware that her father would one day die, leaving the throne of Lashland to her, yet it had been nebulous.
She'd considered little of what to do when the time actually came. Looking up as the sky began brightening to blue, she took a shuddering breath, and forced herself to think of the future.
No doubt her enemies would be rallying support to try and gain advantage over her family, as they always had when a succession took place. Valda's land was in danger, as ever. The Jarls of Lashland had struggled to keep the people and lands free from outside influence for three centuries.
She sighed, it had always been an uphill battle.
Valda's eyes traced the constellations her mother had taught her as they faded with the morning light. She wondered whether the Oracles had seen anything useful in their bird entrails or pungent fires.
With great solemnity, she watched as the sun peeked through a hole carved in one of the pyre's standing stones, illuminating the ash-covered altar. The most senior of the Oracles, a nine-fingered man from the frozen south, gave Valda the simple silver crown of her father.
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Kissing the brow of the still hot and warped piece of metal, she threw it as far as she could over the edge of the cliff. The choppy waves obscured the silver circle within moments.
Valda did not hear its splash, the sound, like her tears, borne away by the howling winds of the Sea of Ghosts.
Someday, her own heir would throw her crown over the same cliff.
How much tarnished silver lay beneath those black waves?
The last of the Oracles had begun the path down the ancient lighthouse by the time Valda turned back towards the altar.
Leaning on one of the ancient stone pillars was her loyal Thane, Casel. His blue eyes and furrowed eyebrows were full of pity.
Valda balled her hands into white-knuckled fists. A Jarl didn't need pity.
His laminar armor gleamed bronze and red in the dawn light, and Valda's funeral clothes were ash-stained and smeared with dried oil. She was disgusted with herself. Disrespecting her parents' souls with her dirty clothes when her Thane was pristine!
Despite herself, her lip quivered.
"It's not your fault, Valda," he said, in that comforting, gallant, infuriatingly friendly tone that was quintessentially his, "The Vigilants have never assassinated a head of state before."
"Don't talk down to me, Casel! You have no idea what it's like!" she shouted, wildly, "I know it's not my fault! Do you really imagine that makes me feel any better?!"
"No! That's not what I meant! I just meant that nobody could have done anything about it! The legion is stationed on the southern border, and we still don't know how the assassin got through the defenses!"
"I know, Casel!"
Valda collapsed to the stone floor, her hands gripping the altar. She sobbed, once, and the floodgates broke. Tears poured down her face. There was a vice around her heart.
"Oh, Valda," said Casel. He kneeled at her side and put his arms around her.
They sat there for a long moment.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Casel. I can't do it. There aren't any armies to fight. No castles to siege. I can't fight a ghost."
"We'll find them, wherever they are," he said, his boundless optimism sparking her rage and frustration once again.
"A wonderful sentiment. Did you see in a fire where the Vigilants are based?" she asked sarcastically, "Something none of my scouts or oracles have been able to do?"
"Valda, don't bite my damned head off! I don't know what you're asking me to do!" snapped Casel, having finally reached his limit. Valda felt a sick kind of satisfaction at bringing him down to her own black mood.
She stood and whirled on him.
"Don't be an idiot, Casel. I am the Jarl as of last night, for better or worse!" Valda snarled, her hands shaking, "It's my duty to protect my people from threats to their life and freedom. How can I do that if I can't even protect myself?"
Casel's handsome square jaw was clenched.
"You want to hear what I think? Fine. Stop crying all the time!"
Valda's mouth fell open. H- He dared! Did he think she was some weak, pathetic flower that had to cry every time her petals were bruised?! Her hand spasmed where a knife would be, if she hadn't been wearing ceremonial robes.
"You're the only one who can rally the lesser chiefs, like your father did. If you don't take action, how long do you think it'll be before Lashland, and everything your family has built, falls apart?"
He paced, nervous energy taking over, and he threw his hands in the air.
"What am I asking? Take this position seriously! You never payed attention to your tutors, all you did was mope, in all the years I've known you. Well now it's too late. Listen to your teachers. Listen to me! You can't do this alone!"
A moment passed, the grey flags snapped in the wind on their tall iron poles.
Valda was in shock. Casel had never spoken to her in such a way, not in the years he'd been her Thane. How dare he question her like this, and on such an occasion!
"Go," she hissed out.
"What?"
"Get out of here before I do something I'll regret, you alajfiskla! Go to the guards, tell them to get ready to leave! I don't want to see your stupid, dajufi, face," she said. He didn't deserve clean language. Her hands were white-knuckled fists. She was sweating from rage, even in the cold morning air, and her feet felt leaden.
He ran his hands through his auburn hair, blue eyes wide.
"Fine. Alright. Call for me if you need me."
A deep, mournful horn sounded at the bottom of the cliffs. Casel turned and hurried down the long stairway down the cliff.
When Valda saw that he'd turned the corner, she relaxed her iron self-control and broke down sobbing into her ash-stained hands, surrounded by the banners of the clan.
"NO!" she bellowed into the wind, "I will not be weak!"
Valda huffed, feeling like her throat had closed up, and she wiped away her tears. She schooled her face into a rough approximation of her father's stern expression, her teeth clenched so hard she feared one would crack.
Her frustrated and grieving scream echoed among the rocks of the cliffs, she clenched her teeth.
After a few minutes, Valda stood stiffly, wiped away her tears, and began the walk down the cliff. They had to ride quickly if they were going to arrive in Thalaheim before dark.
***
Valda's horse trotted up the hill upon which rested the keep of her northmost vassal. It had only taken a few hours for the procession to reach the keep. She'd been glad to put the lighthouse far behind them as they moved west.
Valda admired the construction, a blending of the eastern and western styles of architecture, spiraling minarets at the cardinal points. Elegant wooden trellises and inscriptions set into the walls told stories of the creation of the world. In the center lay a polished, bronze-roofed longhouse, taller and wider than a dozen men. A tall central spire at least four storeys tall in the center, capped with a peaked dome, also made from gleaming bronze. The keep could reputedly be seen from a day's ride away, and while it had been foggy all morning, Valda could readily believe it.
The Chief of Thalaheim, Hakim Thalaheimr, was a contemporary of her father, as well as a distant uncle on her mother's side. She only remembered having met him a few times, but he'd always been dressed in opulent jewels and bright colors.
Today was different, his usually ornate robes had been replaced with a white unornamented robe, fit to suit his substantial girth. The man's thinning blond hair shone with hair oils in the sunlight, but his darker skin revealed his ancestry as having, at least in part, come from across the sea.
Hakim kissed her hand with wet lips, and spoke to her in a boisterous and booming voice.
"Valda! Welcome! I had hoped to see you in more cheerful times, but alas, misfortune comes for the greatest of us, I have prepared a feast in your honor and that of your parents. Mogrim!" shouted the man, calling for a servant, "Take the Jarl to the guest rooms," turning to Valda, he smiled, "I will have someone collect you for the banquet."
The servant led her through the gates of the keep, the Chieftain lagging behind to speak to the Captain of her guard.
The rust-red columns of the longhouse were unpleasantly contrasted by the older grey stone walls of the walls, but the ornate bronze decorations which wound their way up the minarets at the cardinal points in the walls provided a tasteful balance. The white Thalaheimr longboat adorned blue banners which hung from the awnings of the longhouse.
It wasn't really a longhouse, it had once been a purely ronan keep, but over time it had been rebuilt into a lower and wider building, only two storeys tall. It was a sight to behold, but it wasn't her own Tunvyr.
The servant led her up the stairs, climbing up the back wall of the longhouse, facing the ocean, and silently indicated which door was hers.
Valda closed the door behind her as she entered the chamber. It was an elegant room, the polished bronze ceiling held up by white columns inlaid with gold filigree, an elaborate bronze bathtub, with servants to collect hot water from the furnaces. The walls were etched in arabesque patterns of blue and white, and showed the tale of child-king Hiron of Rone, and his conquest of Borea, a dizzyingly intricate mosaic made with thousands of miniscule tiles. Above it all was a glorious mezzanine, draped in thin cottons and edged in marble, with a fine feather mattress lined with fur on which to sleep.
Valda found a thin robe elegantly arranged on a stool near the table, with a fiery tree on the back in delicate embroidery, her personal emblem. The robe had an attached veil with which to hide her hair, a sheer design meant to cover but not truly conceal. The robe had a collar of rabbit fur and was inlaid with cloth of gold. It was meant to be worn over fitted tunics and short breeches, which she found laid on a nearby chair. The entire ensemble glowed in the fire, in white, gold, and red, representing mourning, royalty, and fire, respectively.
Appropriate, she thought sourly.
She stripped out of her leather armor, tired hands fumbling with the buckles and ties. Finally, she peeled off her underclothes and sunk into the grand bath, allowing the nearby servants to pour the scalding water and scented oils over her. If one good thing could be said about Lashland's place in the world, it was that with their position as a trading hub on the Inner Sea, her realm accumulated a tremendous amount of wealth. With the influx of goods from across the world, and the explosion in demand for trade in recent decades, what had once been small fishing villages had exploded into trading metropolises, none moreso than her own city, Tunvyr, thanks to the foresight of her ancestors. That was why they had been able to confederate so many of the neighbouring clans into Lashland's influence, though not without... losses.
She lifted her hand, watching as the firelight flickered on her pruned porcelain hand, drops of water caressing the calluses on her fingers.
The color of mother's olive skin as flames licked their way up her oil-slick skin. The acrid smell of hair burning. The sound of that final wail.
The water splashed as Valda jumped out of the bath, trembling. The sudden exposure to cold air sent goosebumps all across her skin, but her body felt hot, like fire.
Valda took an embroidered cotton towel, and mechanically dried herself.
She wrapped the towel around herself and sat down on a chair facing the window.
Outside it was drizzling, as it often did on the coast. Drops of water inched their way down the glass pane. She could see the reflection of the fire in the darkened window, and closed her eyes. It was like a black fog had descended over her mind.
That was how the servants found her, a few minutes later.
She didn't resist as they began to dress her, and she thought about why Hakim had decided to throw all of this opulence at her. Obviously it was intended to impress, but was he angling for a wedding? It was possible, she decided, but she thought it was unlikely. All of the Thalaheimr children were married or betrothed, and unless he'd had another one, which wasn't impossible, it was likely he was angling to be allowed to raid a smaller nearby kingdom.
To be granted the right of raid-leader was prestigious. These days, raids were more often conducted by bringing a large fleet into port and accepting 'gifts', which were unequivocally lavish and ornate, and especially expensive. A far cry from the ancient practice of burning a village but more socially acceptable, as towns became citadels, and ports became naval bases. It was simply cheaper on both sides to give the gift, rather than suffering losses in a naval battle. The compromise had centuries ago become tradition.
Valda herself had once led a raid where she received a man-sized depiction of the little god Najskaer, the horseman of the stars, with an elegant moonstone crown, and eyes made from rare Xun ivory. It still sat on a pedestal in the temple in Tunvyr, as no-one had been able to find a nicer statue.
Valda decided that if he did ask to lead a raid, she would acquiesce. Granting such a small boon allowed her to stay in the good graces of a powerful vassal and allowed him to gain prestige, which in turn let her have an ally who was growing in strength. Still, it would not do to let him get too strong, since family or not, he would likely try to take power from her.
It was what vassals did. In all likelihood, it had been one of the more rebellious vassals who had ki- Who'd had her father assassinated.
1 - Rite of Passage
Valda stood before the altar, staring at her mother. Far above them, the violet moon burned, illuminating them like a nighttime sun with cold unlight. Two torches fought the baleful glow, fitfully radiating warm orange light and heat.
"This is necessary, my dearest," said Valda's mother. She ran gentle fingers through the oil-slicked hair of her slain husband. "He needs a sacrifice if he's going to get to Fraszheim, assassinated as he was." She touched her husband's chest over his heart, brushing aside decadent silks and jewelry which adorned his corpse.
Valda stared stone-faced at her mother, holding back tears, and she clutched her thick fur coat with white knuckles. Her mother serenely closed her eyes and poured the ritual oils onto herself, her dusky skin shined black in the violet moon's unlight.
"Keep Lashland safe," she said as she embraced Valda, warm, despite the biting wind. Her mother's hands streaked Valda's hair with the oils, and left her tunic stained with the sweet smell of herbal essence. Valda's mind was filled with charred flesh and sizzling oil. Her eyes prickled with tears.
"Mother, I-" began Valda. Her voice caught.
"Hush, Valda, this is what our God demands, and we must obey. My sacrifice will propel us to Fraszheim."
Valda bit her fist as her mother serenely climbed up the altar, seating herself at her father's side.
Her mother did not scream as the fire was lit, though Valda failed to stifle her own agonized wail.
As flames licked over her skin, her mother let out a final, keening sound. Her voice pierced like the sharpest of winter gales even as the crackling of the fire drowned it out. Her mother's brown eyes gazed into Valda's until the bright golden flames engulfed her completely, and the tongues of fire reached high into the cold air on the cliff, fuelled by the mystically empowered oils.
A wizened oracle led Valda to the edge of the cliff, which overlooked the dark water far below. Here, she would wait to watch the dawn. She doubted she could have gotten to the edge alone, in her state.
She stood in silence as the wind of the Inner Sea carried away her parent's ashes. She shook, not only from the cold.
The air chilled her to the bone, despite the heavy furs, but she imagined that her parents were embracing her, their warmth warding off the icy cold of the morning.
In the distance, glinting off of snow on the highest mountains of the Island of Ghosts, the first sliver of the sun began its slow but inexorable rise. The colors of the sky began to shift, black gradually giving way to deep purple in its lightening.
She felt as if the sky should stay dark forever.
The Oracles lit incense and began a chorus which droned in the early dawn, flitting through the breeze. It filled the air ethereally around her. The eerie not-quite-purple unlight of the violet moon faded in the piercing light of the sun, following the endless cycle set in motion by the creators.
The Oracle completed the slow ritual chant in the ancient ronan language. Valda thought of her mother, about how she had protected and educated Valda and her brother.
How would she be able to achieve even a fraction of what her mother or father had?
An oracle placed a great bronze lamp in the fire, and Valda turned around to look at the pyre once more. She stared at the family treasure in the center of the fire, a gleaming cylinder. The relic had in delicate traceries etched into the metal, with ripples of a darker color throughout, result of slight melting on its surface over centuries of use. The flame within had been alight as long as Valda could remember. It would carry the remainders of Valda's parent's souls to the great brazier at Tunvyr, where they would join the soul of the family.
By the time the sun had risen over the mountains, many of the commoners and lesser vassals had begun the trek down the cliff. They returned to the caravan that would carry the funeral party on the first leg of their journey home.
Only the Oracles and close friends remained. Valda's head pounded, two days of fasting having taken their toll on her body. She'd always been aware that her father would one day die, leaving the throne of Lashland to her, yet it had been nebulous.
She'd considered little of what to do when the time actually came. Looking up as the sky began brightening to blue, she took a shuddering breath, and forced herself to think of the future.
No doubt her enemies would be rallying support to try and gain advantage over her family, as they always had when a succession took place. Valda's land was in danger, as ever. The Jarls of Lashland had struggled to keep the people and lands free from outside influence for three centuries.
She sighed, it had always been an uphill battle.
Valda's eyes traced the constellations her mother had taught her as they faded with the morning light. She wondered whether the Oracles had seen anything useful in their bird entrails or pungent fires.
With great solemnity, she watched as the sun peeked through a hole carved in one of the pyre's standing stones, illuminating the ash-covered altar. The most senior of the Oracles, a nine-fingered man from the frozen south, gave Valda the simple silver crown of her father.
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Kissing the brow of the still hot and warped piece of metal, she threw it as far as she could over the edge of the cliff. The choppy waves obscured the silver circle within moments.
Valda did not hear its splash, the sound, like her tears, borne away by the howling winds of the Sea of Ghosts.
Someday, her own heir would throw her crown over the same cliff.
How much tarnished silver lay beneath those black waves?
The last of the Oracles had begun the path down the ancient lighthouse by the time Valda turned back towards the altar.
Leaning on one of the ancient stone pillars was her loyal Thane, Casel. His blue eyes and furrowed eyebrows were full of pity.
Valda balled her hands into white-knuckled fists. A Jarl didn't need pity.
His laminar armor gleamed bronze and red in the dawn light, and Valda's funeral clothes were ash-stained and smeared with dried oil. She was disgusted with herself. Disrespecting her parents' souls with her dirty clothes when her Thane was pristine!
Despite herself, her lip quivered.
"It's not your fault, Valda," he said, in that comforting, gallant, infuriatingly friendly tone that was quintessentially his, "The Vigilants have never assassinated a head of state before."
"Don't talk down to me, Casel! You have no idea what it's like!" she shouted, wildly, "I know it's not my fault! Do you really imagine that makes me feel any better?!"
"No! That's not what I meant! I just meant that nobody could have done anything about it! The legion is stationed on the southern border, and we still don't know how the assassin got through the defenses!"
"I know, Casel!"
Valda collapsed to the stone floor, her hands gripping the altar. She sobbed, once, and the floodgates broke. Tears poured down her face. There was a vice around her heart.
"Oh, Valda," said Casel. He kneeled at her side and put his arms around her.
They sat there for a long moment.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Casel. I can't do it. There aren't any armies to fight. No castles to siege. I can't fight a ghost."
"We'll find them, wherever they are," he said, his boundless optimism sparking her rage and frustration once again.
"A wonderful sentiment. Did you see in a fire where the Vigilants are based?" she asked sarcastically, "Something none of my scouts or oracles have been able to do?"
"Valda, don't bite my damned head off! I don't know what you're asking me to do!" snapped Casel, having finally reached his limit. Valda felt a sick kind of satisfaction at bringing him down to her own black mood.
She stood and whirled on him.
"Don't be an idiot, Casel. I am the Jarl as of last night, for better or worse!" Valda snarled, her hands shaking, "It's my duty to protect my people from threats to their life and freedom. How can I do that if I can't even protect myself?"
Casel's handsome square jaw was clenched.
"You want to hear what I think? Fine. Stop crying all the time!"
Valda's mouth fell open. H- He dared! Did he think she was some weak, pathetic flower that had to cry every time her petals were bruised?! Her hand spasmed where a knife would be, if she hadn't been wearing ceremonial robes.
"You're the only one who can rally the lesser chiefs, like your father did. If you don't take action, how long do you think it'll be before Lashland, and everything your family has built, falls apart?"
He paced, nervous energy taking over, and he threw his hands in the air.
"What am I asking? Take this position seriously! You never payed attention to your tutors, all you did was mope, in all the years I've known you. Well now it's too late. Listen to your teachers. Listen to me! You can't do this alone!"
A moment passed, the grey flags snapped in the wind on their tall iron poles.
Valda was in shock. Casel had never spoken to her in such a way, not in the years he'd been her Thane. How dare he question her like this, and on such an occasion!
"Go," she hissed out.
"What?"
"Get out of here before I do something I'll regret, you alajfiskla! Go to the guards, tell them to get ready to leave! I don't want to see your stupid, dajufi, face," she said. He didn't deserve clean language. Her hands were white-knuckled fists. She was sweating from rage, even in the cold morning air, and her feet felt leaden.
He ran his hands through his auburn hair, blue eyes wide.
"Fine. Alright. Call for me if you need me."
A deep, mournful horn sounded at the bottom of the cliffs. Casel turned and hurried down the long stairway down the cliff.
When Valda saw that he'd turned the corner, she relaxed her iron self-control and broke down sobbing into her ash-stained hands, surrounded by the banners of the clan.
"NO!" she bellowed into the wind, "I will not be weak!"
Valda huffed, feeling like her throat had closed up, and she wiped away her tears. She schooled her face into a rough approximation of her father's stern expression, her teeth clenched so hard she feared one would crack.
Her frustrated and grieving scream echoed among the rocks of the cliffs, she clenched her teeth.
After a few minutes, Valda stood stiffly, wiped away her tears, and began the walk down the cliff. They had to ride quickly if they were going to arrive in Thalaheim before dark.
***
Valda's horse trotted up the hill upon which rested the keep of her northmost vassal. It had only taken a few hours for the procession to reach the keep. She'd been glad to put the lighthouse far behind them as they moved west.
Valda admired the construction, a blending of the eastern and western styles of architecture, spiraling minarets at the cardinal points. Elegant wooden trellises and inscriptions set into the walls told stories of the creation of the world. In the center lay a polished, bronze-roofed longhouse, taller and wider than a dozen men. A tall central spire at least four storeys tall in the center, capped with a peaked dome, also made from gleaming bronze. The keep could reputedly be seen from a day's ride away, and while it had been foggy all morning, Valda could readily believe it.
The Chief of Thalaheim, Hakim Thalaheimr, was a contemporary of her father, as well as a distant uncle on her mother's side. She only remembered having met him a few times, but he'd always been dressed in opulent jewels and bright colors.
Today was different, his usually ornate robes had been replaced with a white unornamented robe, fit to suit his substantial girth. The man's thinning blond hair shone with hair oils in the sunlight, but his darker skin revealed his ancestry as having, at least in part, come from across the sea.
Hakim kissed her hand with wet lips, and spoke to her in a boisterous and booming voice.
"Valda! Welcome! I had hoped to see you in more cheerful times, but alas, misfortune comes for the greatest of us, I have prepared a feast in your honor and that of your parents. Mogrim!" shouted the man, calling for a servant, "Take the Jarl to the guest rooms," turning to Valda, he smiled, "I will have someone collect you for the banquet."
The servant led her through the gates of the keep, the Chieftain lagging behind to speak to the Captain of her guard.
The rust-red columns of the longhouse were unpleasantly contrasted by the older grey stone walls of the walls, but the ornate bronze decorations which wound their way up the minarets at the cardinal points in the walls provided a tasteful balance. The white Thalaheimr longboat adorned blue banners which hung from the awnings of the longhouse.
It wasn't really a longhouse, it had once been a purely ronan keep, but over time it had been rebuilt into a lower and wider building, only two storeys tall. It was a sight to behold, but it wasn't her own Tunvyr.
The servant led her up the stairs, climbing up the back wall of the longhouse, facing the ocean, and silently indicated which door was hers.
Valda closed the door behind her as she entered the chamber. It was an elegant room, the polished bronze ceiling held up by white columns inlaid with gold filigree, an elaborate bronze bathtub, with servants to collect hot water from the furnaces. The walls were etched in arabesque patterns of blue and white, and showed the tale of child-king Hiron of Rone, and his conquest of Borea, a dizzyingly intricate mosaic made with thousands of miniscule tiles. Above it all was a glorious mezzanine, draped in thin cottons and edged in marble, with a fine feather mattress lined with fur on which to sleep.
Valda found a thin robe elegantly arranged on a stool near the table, with a fiery tree on the back in delicate embroidery, her personal emblem. The robe had an attached veil with which to hide her hair, a sheer design meant to cover but not truly conceal. The robe had a collar of rabbit fur and was inlaid with cloth of gold. It was meant to be worn over fitted tunics and short breeches, which she found laid on a nearby chair. The entire ensemble glowed in the fire, in white, gold, and red, representing mourning, royalty, and fire, respectively.
Appropriate, she thought sourly.
She stripped out of her leather armor, tired hands fumbling with the buckles and ties. Finally, she peeled off her underclothes and sunk into the grand bath, allowing the nearby servants to pour the scalding water and scented oils over her. If one good thing could be said about Lashland's place in the world, it was that with their position as a trading hub on the Inner Sea, her realm accumulated a tremendous amount of wealth. With the influx of goods from across the world, and the explosion in demand for trade in recent decades, what had once been small fishing villages had exploded into trading metropolises, none moreso than her own city, Tunvyr, thanks to the foresight of her ancestors. That was why they had been able to confederate so many of the neighbouring clans into Lashland's influence, though not without... losses.
She lifted her hand, watching as the firelight flickered on her pruned porcelain hand, drops of water caressing the calluses on her fingers.
The color of mother's olive skin as flames licked their way up her oil-slick skin. The acrid smell of hair burning. The sound of that final wail.
The water splashed as Valda jumped out of the bath, trembling. The sudden exposure to cold air sent goosebumps all across her skin, but her body felt hot, like fire.
Valda took an embroidered cotton towel, and mechanically dried herself.
She wrapped the towel around herself and sat down on a chair facing the window.
Outside it was drizzling, as it often did on the coast. Drops of water inched their way down the glass pane. She could see the reflection of the fire in the darkened window, and closed her eyes. It was like a black fog had descended over her mind.
That was how the servants found her, a few minutes later.
She didn't resist as they began to dress her, and she thought about why Hakim had decided to throw all of this opulence at her. Obviously it was intended to impress, but was he angling for a wedding? It was possible, she decided, but she thought it was unlikely. All of the Thalaheimr children were married or betrothed, and unless he'd had another one, which wasn't impossible, it was likely he was angling to be allowed to raid a smaller nearby kingdom.
To be granted the right of raid-leader was prestigious. These days, raids were more often conducted by bringing a large fleet into port and accepting 'gifts', which were unequivocally lavish and ornate, and especially expensive. A far cry from the ancient practice of burning a village but more socially acceptable, as towns became citadels, and ports became naval bases. It was simply cheaper on both sides to give the gift, rather than suffering losses in a naval battle. The compromise had centuries ago become tradition.
Valda herself had once led a raid where she received a man-sized depiction of the little god Najskaer, the horseman of the stars, with an elegant moonstone crown, and eyes made from rare Xun ivory. It still sat on a pedestal in the temple in Tunvyr, as no-one had been able to find a nicer statue.
Valda decided that if he did ask to lead a raid, she would acquiesce. Granting such a small boon allowed her to stay in the good graces of a powerful vassal and allowed him to gain prestige, which in turn let her have an ally who was growing in strength. Still, it would not do to let him get too strong, since family or not, he would likely try to take power from her.
It was what vassals did. In all likelihood, it had been one of the more rebellious vassals who had ki- Who'd had her father assassinated.
1.2 - Rite of Passage
Casus Belli
In the Shadow of the Mouse
- Location
- Florida
Casel sat on his bed next to Khenet in their quarters.
Well, Casel's quarters, technically.
Khenet was a guard and didn't rate private accomodation from their host, Valda's vassal. Casel, as a Thane, got a private room in the same wing as Valda. He'd been invited to the dinner, as a matter of courtesy, but Valda was there, and she'd told him in no uncertain terms that she didn't want to see him.
Casel sighed deeply, idly tracing his fingers across his partner's leg.
"What's wrong, Casel?" asked Khenet, running his warm olive hands across Casel's shoulders, "You're all tense and melodramatic."
Casel smiled, and leaned back into Khenet's arms.
"It's nothing you can fix. Valda was being unreasonable. As usual, she's taking everything on herself, and refuses to ask for help."
Khenet sighed, but started pressing on Casel's tense muscles.
"I don't know her as well as you do, of course. I guess all you can do is try and be there for her. She'll come around."
"It's not that simple," said Casel, running his hands through his hair, "Most of her problems are things I legitimately can't help with. I tried to get her to focus and work on her problems instead of just moping."
Khenet stopped rubbing, and put his arms around Casel, "Not much you can do that you haven't, I think. I don't know her very well. Take things as they come, Cas, you're good at that. And listen to her if she opens up to you. Sometimes people just want to feel bad. Like I said, she'll come around."
Casel smiled, "Yeah, I suppose so. It's not the first time I've talked to her about it, but she never listens. That's the kind of person she is."
They sat in contented silence. Or Khenet did, probably. Casel felt a roiling feeling in his gut. He didn't often have the opportunity to feel guilt, his life was relatively simple, but he didn't like it.
There was something he needed to bring up with Khenet. A month ago, he'd brought Khenet to meet his parents. It hadn't gone well.
He took a deep breath, and hesitated. Maybe it might be best to just... No. His parents had really hurt him and Khenet, and they'd agreed not to keep big things from each other.
"Khen, I'm really sorry about my family," he began, "I didn't realize they'd react like... that."
His family had always been traditional, and they hadn't taken Casel and Khenet's relationship very well, not least because Khenet was an easterner. He half turned in Khenet's lap, and looked at Khenet's face. Khenet was frowning, Casel felt like he was a centimeter tall.
It wasn't just Khenet's ethnicity, though. There had been hours of yelling before Casel's family had finally accepted that he was argi, and had no interest in the opposite sex. They'd kicked Khenet and he out of the house, and his father had told him to never come back.
"Hey," said Khenet, "I'm fine. It's not the first time I've had that kind of thing yelled at me, Casel, even back home." Khenet's hands tightened on Casel's shoulders, belying the ease of his words. "Nobody's perfect."
"It's not fine, Khenet. They said those things to you, to me! They've always-" Casel felt a wave of burning anger, and he clenched his fists. He'd thought he'd gotten over his parent's words, but the hatred and vitriol came rushing back. He felt like he'd been figuratively punched in the gut all over again.
"I just- I can't- won't- let them stop me from being happy," he said firmly, his voice choking up. He sniffled.
Khenet reached over to the bedside table and grabbed Casel's handkerchief. It was lumpy and fraying, but Casel's sister had made it when he left home for his training, years ago, and he'd kept it close ever since.
He started sobbing. It was like a rope was being pulled around his chest, and only Khenet's arms around him stopped him from falling off the bed. Goodness, and after he'd just berated Valda for crying that morning. He felt ridiculous, and forced himself to quiet down.
A few minutes passed like an eternity.
Casel clutched onto the shorter man like a baby, smearing his tunic with snot and tears. Khenet held him tightly, despite it.
Eventually, Casel just felt tired. Limply leaning on his partner for support.
"The still love you, Casel. I'm sure of it," whispered Khenet, as he rubbed Casel's back. "If they didn't love you, they wouldn't care, would they?"
Casel smiled into Khenet's shoulder.
"Yeah," he said, "s'pose you're right."
Casel scooted onto Khenet's lap, his arms around his partner's neck.
Khenet squirmed like a snake after a few moments.
"As much as I love you, Cas," began Khenet, "You need to move. My legs are falling asleep, and we are still on duty."
Casel barked out a thick laugh, surprising himself, and took a shuddering breath.
He moved back onto the bed, and Khenet rubbed his legs to regain sensation, swatting Casel on the back.
"Look what you did to my uniform, you big crybaby," Khenet said, but he smiled, taking the heat out of the rebuke.
Casel snorted. The front of the tunic was wet with tears all down the left side. If he hadn't had others, Khenet might have gotten in trouble with the Captain.
"Thanks, Khenet," said Casel, squeezing the smaller man, and pressing his face into Khenet's shoulder-length black hair.
"It will be fine, Casel," said his partner, patting him on the back. "Anyway, I can think of a way to take my mind off your stupid parents..." Khenet smiled, and licked his lips.
Casel laughed and slapped Khenet's shoulder.
On duty they might have been, but as he leaned forwards for a blazing kiss, pushing Khenet back onto his back on the cot, he really hoped nothing went wrong.
Because he wasn't paying attention anymore.
***
Pausing at the foot of the ornate staircase to the banquet hall of the longhouse, Valda inhaled deeply, savoring the rich smells of spices, which reminded her of what her mother would tell her servants to make on festival days. Valda drew upon every drop of training her parents had given her to suppress her tears. She carefully controlled her expression, clenching her jaw, and strode towards the head table.
Valda forced herself to smile at her host. Despite everything, she appreciated the efforts he went to in order to comfort her, even though she'd only met him once or twice.
She saw that Hakim had prepared a seat for her beside his daughter, likely to show the girl an example of someone to imitate, and to show Valda someone she could bond with. It was a transparent ploy to reinforce the ties she had to his family. It also wasn't the first time something like that had happened, and she had been trained to deal with it.
As she sat down, the Oracle that was present began a somber prayer, singing about the trials and suffering Valda's parents experienced during their life, but also telling of their glories and heroism, such as when her mother had slain a shark in the Sea of Ghosts with only a spear, or when her father had married the second and third biggest tribes of the nearby forests together, and accepted their fealty.
When the song ended, Valda spoke to the girl beside her.
"Hello, Thalaheimr, what is your name?" Valda asked.
"Tifling" replied the girl "I was named for your grandmother, you know," she said, haughtily.
Ah, so it was going to be one of those feasts.
"Of course. That was the Jarl who granted these lands to your grandfather, wasn't she?" Valda asked lightly.
The girl frowned. "That's right," she said after a moment. "My father says that I should be like you if I want to make my clan great. But I don't want to be like you. I want to be like me."
Valda smiled indulgently, "Being yourself is difficult and often unrewarding, I've found. It is often better to walk in someone else's footsteps. That way, when you walk in the last of them you can move forward and create something new, instead of slogging through life trying to reinvent things others have already perfected."
"That sounds very sad" said Tifling thoughtfully, with the naivety of a child.
"Life often is," Valda agreed, better she learn that lesson early.
The food was brought out.
First, a large selection of traditional appetizers, along with a wonderful honeyed mead, the main course was an enormous boar, easily the size of a cow. Braised in what must have been a monstrous oven, and encrusted with expensive peppercorns.
They fell into silence as they ate. Hakim was staring into the middle distance, and Tifling was daintily putting food into her mouth, looking down at her lap.
Valda ate woodenly. The wonderful spices her mother would have used tasted like ash in her mouth.
The other members of Hakim's family seemed to sense that nobody was interested in conversation, and they kept up a quiet murmur of chatter at the other end of the table.
Later, as they partook in a selection of cheeses, Hakim stood and pulled out of his robes a necklace of several thin gold chains and decorated with a single, glinting ruby.
"Jarl, this was given to me by your mother, many years ago, on the day of my marriage to my first wife. I request that you place it within the lamp that carries their souls, to allow me to fulfil my debt to her." Hakim's voice was thick, and he looked into her eyes beseechingly.
Aha! she realized. This was what he wanted. It was very rare for a person to be allowed to sacrifice something in someone else's funeral. He must have been much closer to Valda's mother than she ever let on. Valda felt a tightness in her chest, and did her best not to let it show on her face.
"Of course, uncle," she replied, emphasizing the blood connection, "You have my blessing."
She took the simple necklace, and slipped it into a pocket on her tunic.
This boon was much more easily granted than allowing him any measure of power, especially immediately after her succession. It also meant including him more closely in her family, which was very desirable.
She needed to consolidate her allies, and this was an important step. It also marked Hakim as honorable and sentimental, which was helpful in getting the measure of a potential ally or rival.
As Valda opened her mouth to defuse the silence, there was an explosion of blue flame and smoke, and the entrance to the banquet hall erupted into splinters and smoke.
The remains of the doors fell through the cloud, smashing into the ground with a loud crash.
For a moment there was silence. Then, a crossbow bolt sliced through the air, embedding itself in the boar directly in front of Valda.
She'd been wrong before, it was going to be one of those feasts.
"Vigilants!" screamed a man on the main tables in the lower part of the feasting hall, as red-clothed assailants burst through the empty doorframe. One of the attackers cut off any more words by plunging her dagger into his throat.
"For the Vigil! Kyvarthi!" the assassin shrieked, prompting a similar spate of war cries from the other Vigilants.
A bolt from a crossbow struck a glancing strike to Hakim, but he seemed superficially intact, only bleeding a little. Taking the cutting blade used on the boar, Valda tested its weight. It would do.
One of them charged at Tifling, but Valda scooped up and threw a knife from someone's plate at the assassin's face as a distraction. She dug her serrated cutting blade into his throat, tearing it to shreds as she twisted it on the way out.
The man collapsed to the ground with a heavy thump.
Knives were Valda's speciality.
She flipped it in her hand.
"Tifling, Valda, we must run to the servant's entrance." said Hakim, shivering.
"My soldiers will likely have blocked themselves into the Northern minaret, it is the closest to the barracks. From there, Captain Valki will send squads to secure the Longhouse," predicted Valda. It was not the first time there'd been an assassination attempt. It wouldn't be the last. It was also standard procedure, and she'd grown up with the guards. Secure a defensive position, surround the enemy, clear the area. However, this meant that it could be minutes until the first squads arrived, and minutes were eternities in a fight.
The three walked as fast as they could, Hakim's weight and injury slowing him down. By the time they got to the hall, he was wheezing, stopping every few steps to catch his breath.
"Almost there, Babaan," said Tifling, shaking violently. Valda snorted, not feeling particularly charitable. Hakim had been a warrior in his day, and should still be able to take care of himself.
As she finally busted through the doors of the servant's entrance, she heard the noise of a blade being drawn from its sheath. She turned in time to see a bearded Vigilant stab his dagger at her face.
She was still off balance from kicking in the door, but she managed to stumble back, bowling over Tifling, and cursing herself for her lack of attention.
She barely managed to catch the man's dagger on her kitchen-knife. He was stronger than he looked.
The moon broke through the clouds for a moment, but it was enough for Valda to see the glint of another dagger being stabbed towards her gut.
She desperately grabbed the man's wrist, but he was strong enough, and had the leverage necessary, to slowly drive it toward her.
"The Prophet needs you alive, but he doesn't need you whole!" grunted the Vigilant, his coppery, hot breath washing over her, "Die, you east-loving whore."
Valda grimaced, she could barely keep the man at bay. It was looking like she wouldn't make it out alive...
The Vigilant gasped and spat hot blood all down the front of her tunic.
He fell forward onto her, and she pushed both blades away. Tifling stood behind him on weak limbs, her little hand shaking as she gripped her little dagger. The girl was drenched in blood and breathing heavily, just as Valda was.
Valda nodded firmly at the girl, trying to get her to show a little spine. She was reminded of herself at that age, but Valda wouldn't have thrown the dagger to the ground in disgust, even if it was too small to be really useful in a fight.
Valda considered that perhaps she should invest in a second dagger.
Hakim had turned a pale color and seemed to have trouble keeping himself upright. He'd been a warrior, decades ago, so his current symptoms could not be attributed to shock, which left-
"Poison," said Hakim, "Feels like poison. With this weight, I'll be fine with a bit of rest." He slapped his belly for emphasis, before hunching over and wincing in pain.
Valda raised a blonde eyebrow skeptically. "If you're sure."
She shook her head. At this point, if he was going to die, there wasn't anything she could do about it.
Grabbing Tifling by the hand, she began pulling the girl towards the stables, Hakim limping behind.
"We've got to get out of here. My escorts will have fortified the gate by now. Or at least, they'd better have."
Sure enough, when they rounded the corner of the longhouse, they met a group of soldiers with the emblem of the burning tree, her own retinue. Her thane was wearing his shirt backwards, had several red marks on his neck, and a thunderous expression on his face. He must have still been offended at her remarks from before. Maybe she would give him some space before she apologized.
If she apologized.
Captain Valki spoke up as soon as she got within earshot, "Jarl! Words cannot express how glad I am to see you. Most of the Vigilants have been killed or have escaped. They came in disguised as servants, I have determined. I don't know how many may remain in secret."
Valda nodded at her guard captain. "Don't worry about that. It's up to Hakim's personal guard. We've got to get back to Tunvyr. If the Vigilants are acting so brazenly, the other Chieftains must be warned, and I must confirm that no other attacks took place. Also, I am the likely target, and my departure should preclude further attacks."
Hakim leaned heavily against the side of the stable, but he already looked better, so Valda did not comment. "I understand, niece. I will do my best to root out the Vigilants here, and I will tell you what any interrogations uncover. For tonight though, I implore you, sleep here for a night. I shall post a guard equal to my own at your door."
Valda hesitated. There were a few hours of daylight left, but her guards were already exhausted, and she did not want to have another fight with Casel so soon after the last one, let alone deal with a possible Vigilant ambush.
"That sounds wonderful, uncle," she said at last, "and on that note, I think I shall retire. I need to get this blood off of me before it totally dries. Tomorrow morning at dawn, we ride south."
Captain Valki looked relieved, "Thank you, Jarl. I will post a double guard to your room. Sleep well, the guard will be ready tomorrow morning."
Well, Casel's quarters, technically.
Khenet was a guard and didn't rate private accomodation from their host, Valda's vassal. Casel, as a Thane, got a private room in the same wing as Valda. He'd been invited to the dinner, as a matter of courtesy, but Valda was there, and she'd told him in no uncertain terms that she didn't want to see him.
Casel sighed deeply, idly tracing his fingers across his partner's leg.
"What's wrong, Casel?" asked Khenet, running his warm olive hands across Casel's shoulders, "You're all tense and melodramatic."
Casel smiled, and leaned back into Khenet's arms.
"It's nothing you can fix. Valda was being unreasonable. As usual, she's taking everything on herself, and refuses to ask for help."
Khenet sighed, but started pressing on Casel's tense muscles.
"I don't know her as well as you do, of course. I guess all you can do is try and be there for her. She'll come around."
"It's not that simple," said Casel, running his hands through his hair, "Most of her problems are things I legitimately can't help with. I tried to get her to focus and work on her problems instead of just moping."
Khenet stopped rubbing, and put his arms around Casel, "Not much you can do that you haven't, I think. I don't know her very well. Take things as they come, Cas, you're good at that. And listen to her if she opens up to you. Sometimes people just want to feel bad. Like I said, she'll come around."
Casel smiled, "Yeah, I suppose so. It's not the first time I've talked to her about it, but she never listens. That's the kind of person she is."
They sat in contented silence. Or Khenet did, probably. Casel felt a roiling feeling in his gut. He didn't often have the opportunity to feel guilt, his life was relatively simple, but he didn't like it.
There was something he needed to bring up with Khenet. A month ago, he'd brought Khenet to meet his parents. It hadn't gone well.
He took a deep breath, and hesitated. Maybe it might be best to just... No. His parents had really hurt him and Khenet, and they'd agreed not to keep big things from each other.
"Khen, I'm really sorry about my family," he began, "I didn't realize they'd react like... that."
His family had always been traditional, and they hadn't taken Casel and Khenet's relationship very well, not least because Khenet was an easterner. He half turned in Khenet's lap, and looked at Khenet's face. Khenet was frowning, Casel felt like he was a centimeter tall.
It wasn't just Khenet's ethnicity, though. There had been hours of yelling before Casel's family had finally accepted that he was argi, and had no interest in the opposite sex. They'd kicked Khenet and he out of the house, and his father had told him to never come back.
"Hey," said Khenet, "I'm fine. It's not the first time I've had that kind of thing yelled at me, Casel, even back home." Khenet's hands tightened on Casel's shoulders, belying the ease of his words. "Nobody's perfect."
"It's not fine, Khenet. They said those things to you, to me! They've always-" Casel felt a wave of burning anger, and he clenched his fists. He'd thought he'd gotten over his parent's words, but the hatred and vitriol came rushing back. He felt like he'd been figuratively punched in the gut all over again.
"I just- I can't- won't- let them stop me from being happy," he said firmly, his voice choking up. He sniffled.
Khenet reached over to the bedside table and grabbed Casel's handkerchief. It was lumpy and fraying, but Casel's sister had made it when he left home for his training, years ago, and he'd kept it close ever since.
He started sobbing. It was like a rope was being pulled around his chest, and only Khenet's arms around him stopped him from falling off the bed. Goodness, and after he'd just berated Valda for crying that morning. He felt ridiculous, and forced himself to quiet down.
A few minutes passed like an eternity.
Casel clutched onto the shorter man like a baby, smearing his tunic with snot and tears. Khenet held him tightly, despite it.
Eventually, Casel just felt tired. Limply leaning on his partner for support.
"The still love you, Casel. I'm sure of it," whispered Khenet, as he rubbed Casel's back. "If they didn't love you, they wouldn't care, would they?"
Casel smiled into Khenet's shoulder.
"Yeah," he said, "s'pose you're right."
Casel scooted onto Khenet's lap, his arms around his partner's neck.
Khenet squirmed like a snake after a few moments.
"As much as I love you, Cas," began Khenet, "You need to move. My legs are falling asleep, and we are still on duty."
Casel barked out a thick laugh, surprising himself, and took a shuddering breath.
He moved back onto the bed, and Khenet rubbed his legs to regain sensation, swatting Casel on the back.
"Look what you did to my uniform, you big crybaby," Khenet said, but he smiled, taking the heat out of the rebuke.
Casel snorted. The front of the tunic was wet with tears all down the left side. If he hadn't had others, Khenet might have gotten in trouble with the Captain.
"Thanks, Khenet," said Casel, squeezing the smaller man, and pressing his face into Khenet's shoulder-length black hair.
"It will be fine, Casel," said his partner, patting him on the back. "Anyway, I can think of a way to take my mind off your stupid parents..." Khenet smiled, and licked his lips.
Casel laughed and slapped Khenet's shoulder.
On duty they might have been, but as he leaned forwards for a blazing kiss, pushing Khenet back onto his back on the cot, he really hoped nothing went wrong.
Because he wasn't paying attention anymore.
***
Pausing at the foot of the ornate staircase to the banquet hall of the longhouse, Valda inhaled deeply, savoring the rich smells of spices, which reminded her of what her mother would tell her servants to make on festival days. Valda drew upon every drop of training her parents had given her to suppress her tears. She carefully controlled her expression, clenching her jaw, and strode towards the head table.
Valda forced herself to smile at her host. Despite everything, she appreciated the efforts he went to in order to comfort her, even though she'd only met him once or twice.
She saw that Hakim had prepared a seat for her beside his daughter, likely to show the girl an example of someone to imitate, and to show Valda someone she could bond with. It was a transparent ploy to reinforce the ties she had to his family. It also wasn't the first time something like that had happened, and she had been trained to deal with it.
As she sat down, the Oracle that was present began a somber prayer, singing about the trials and suffering Valda's parents experienced during their life, but also telling of their glories and heroism, such as when her mother had slain a shark in the Sea of Ghosts with only a spear, or when her father had married the second and third biggest tribes of the nearby forests together, and accepted their fealty.
When the song ended, Valda spoke to the girl beside her.
"Hello, Thalaheimr, what is your name?" Valda asked.
"Tifling" replied the girl "I was named for your grandmother, you know," she said, haughtily.
Ah, so it was going to be one of those feasts.
"Of course. That was the Jarl who granted these lands to your grandfather, wasn't she?" Valda asked lightly.
The girl frowned. "That's right," she said after a moment. "My father says that I should be like you if I want to make my clan great. But I don't want to be like you. I want to be like me."
Valda smiled indulgently, "Being yourself is difficult and often unrewarding, I've found. It is often better to walk in someone else's footsteps. That way, when you walk in the last of them you can move forward and create something new, instead of slogging through life trying to reinvent things others have already perfected."
"That sounds very sad" said Tifling thoughtfully, with the naivety of a child.
"Life often is," Valda agreed, better she learn that lesson early.
The food was brought out.
First, a large selection of traditional appetizers, along with a wonderful honeyed mead, the main course was an enormous boar, easily the size of a cow. Braised in what must have been a monstrous oven, and encrusted with expensive peppercorns.
They fell into silence as they ate. Hakim was staring into the middle distance, and Tifling was daintily putting food into her mouth, looking down at her lap.
Valda ate woodenly. The wonderful spices her mother would have used tasted like ash in her mouth.
The other members of Hakim's family seemed to sense that nobody was interested in conversation, and they kept up a quiet murmur of chatter at the other end of the table.
Later, as they partook in a selection of cheeses, Hakim stood and pulled out of his robes a necklace of several thin gold chains and decorated with a single, glinting ruby.
"Jarl, this was given to me by your mother, many years ago, on the day of my marriage to my first wife. I request that you place it within the lamp that carries their souls, to allow me to fulfil my debt to her." Hakim's voice was thick, and he looked into her eyes beseechingly.
Aha! she realized. This was what he wanted. It was very rare for a person to be allowed to sacrifice something in someone else's funeral. He must have been much closer to Valda's mother than she ever let on. Valda felt a tightness in her chest, and did her best not to let it show on her face.
"Of course, uncle," she replied, emphasizing the blood connection, "You have my blessing."
She took the simple necklace, and slipped it into a pocket on her tunic.
This boon was much more easily granted than allowing him any measure of power, especially immediately after her succession. It also meant including him more closely in her family, which was very desirable.
She needed to consolidate her allies, and this was an important step. It also marked Hakim as honorable and sentimental, which was helpful in getting the measure of a potential ally or rival.
As Valda opened her mouth to defuse the silence, there was an explosion of blue flame and smoke, and the entrance to the banquet hall erupted into splinters and smoke.
The remains of the doors fell through the cloud, smashing into the ground with a loud crash.
For a moment there was silence. Then, a crossbow bolt sliced through the air, embedding itself in the boar directly in front of Valda.
She'd been wrong before, it was going to be one of those feasts.
"Vigilants!" screamed a man on the main tables in the lower part of the feasting hall, as red-clothed assailants burst through the empty doorframe. One of the attackers cut off any more words by plunging her dagger into his throat.
"For the Vigil! Kyvarthi!" the assassin shrieked, prompting a similar spate of war cries from the other Vigilants.
A bolt from a crossbow struck a glancing strike to Hakim, but he seemed superficially intact, only bleeding a little. Taking the cutting blade used on the boar, Valda tested its weight. It would do.
One of them charged at Tifling, but Valda scooped up and threw a knife from someone's plate at the assassin's face as a distraction. She dug her serrated cutting blade into his throat, tearing it to shreds as she twisted it on the way out.
The man collapsed to the ground with a heavy thump.
Knives were Valda's speciality.
She flipped it in her hand.
"Tifling, Valda, we must run to the servant's entrance." said Hakim, shivering.
"My soldiers will likely have blocked themselves into the Northern minaret, it is the closest to the barracks. From there, Captain Valki will send squads to secure the Longhouse," predicted Valda. It was not the first time there'd been an assassination attempt. It wouldn't be the last. It was also standard procedure, and she'd grown up with the guards. Secure a defensive position, surround the enemy, clear the area. However, this meant that it could be minutes until the first squads arrived, and minutes were eternities in a fight.
The three walked as fast as they could, Hakim's weight and injury slowing him down. By the time they got to the hall, he was wheezing, stopping every few steps to catch his breath.
"Almost there, Babaan," said Tifling, shaking violently. Valda snorted, not feeling particularly charitable. Hakim had been a warrior in his day, and should still be able to take care of himself.
As she finally busted through the doors of the servant's entrance, she heard the noise of a blade being drawn from its sheath. She turned in time to see a bearded Vigilant stab his dagger at her face.
She was still off balance from kicking in the door, but she managed to stumble back, bowling over Tifling, and cursing herself for her lack of attention.
She barely managed to catch the man's dagger on her kitchen-knife. He was stronger than he looked.
The moon broke through the clouds for a moment, but it was enough for Valda to see the glint of another dagger being stabbed towards her gut.
She desperately grabbed the man's wrist, but he was strong enough, and had the leverage necessary, to slowly drive it toward her.
"The Prophet needs you alive, but he doesn't need you whole!" grunted the Vigilant, his coppery, hot breath washing over her, "Die, you east-loving whore."
Valda grimaced, she could barely keep the man at bay. It was looking like she wouldn't make it out alive...
The Vigilant gasped and spat hot blood all down the front of her tunic.
He fell forward onto her, and she pushed both blades away. Tifling stood behind him on weak limbs, her little hand shaking as she gripped her little dagger. The girl was drenched in blood and breathing heavily, just as Valda was.
Valda nodded firmly at the girl, trying to get her to show a little spine. She was reminded of herself at that age, but Valda wouldn't have thrown the dagger to the ground in disgust, even if it was too small to be really useful in a fight.
Valda considered that perhaps she should invest in a second dagger.
Hakim had turned a pale color and seemed to have trouble keeping himself upright. He'd been a warrior, decades ago, so his current symptoms could not be attributed to shock, which left-
"Poison," said Hakim, "Feels like poison. With this weight, I'll be fine with a bit of rest." He slapped his belly for emphasis, before hunching over and wincing in pain.
Valda raised a blonde eyebrow skeptically. "If you're sure."
She shook her head. At this point, if he was going to die, there wasn't anything she could do about it.
Grabbing Tifling by the hand, she began pulling the girl towards the stables, Hakim limping behind.
"We've got to get out of here. My escorts will have fortified the gate by now. Or at least, they'd better have."
Sure enough, when they rounded the corner of the longhouse, they met a group of soldiers with the emblem of the burning tree, her own retinue. Her thane was wearing his shirt backwards, had several red marks on his neck, and a thunderous expression on his face. He must have still been offended at her remarks from before. Maybe she would give him some space before she apologized.
If she apologized.
Captain Valki spoke up as soon as she got within earshot, "Jarl! Words cannot express how glad I am to see you. Most of the Vigilants have been killed or have escaped. They came in disguised as servants, I have determined. I don't know how many may remain in secret."
Valda nodded at her guard captain. "Don't worry about that. It's up to Hakim's personal guard. We've got to get back to Tunvyr. If the Vigilants are acting so brazenly, the other Chieftains must be warned, and I must confirm that no other attacks took place. Also, I am the likely target, and my departure should preclude further attacks."
Hakim leaned heavily against the side of the stable, but he already looked better, so Valda did not comment. "I understand, niece. I will do my best to root out the Vigilants here, and I will tell you what any interrogations uncover. For tonight though, I implore you, sleep here for a night. I shall post a guard equal to my own at your door."
Valda hesitated. There were a few hours of daylight left, but her guards were already exhausted, and she did not want to have another fight with Casel so soon after the last one, let alone deal with a possible Vigilant ambush.
"That sounds wonderful, uncle," she said at last, "and on that note, I think I shall retire. I need to get this blood off of me before it totally dries. Tomorrow morning at dawn, we ride south."
Captain Valki looked relieved, "Thank you, Jarl. I will post a double guard to your room. Sleep well, the guard will be ready tomorrow morning."
1.3 - Rite of Passage
Casus Belli
In the Shadow of the Mouse
- Location
- Florida
They had left nearly a week ago. Finally, early the day before, the convoy had left the highlands and began moving down towards sea-level as they moved west. He'd liked the striking cliffs and strong winds of the highlands as much as anyone else, but he'd let out a sigh of relief when the wind-scoured bluffs gradually gave way to misty boughs of deep forest he'd grown up in. The constant pounding of the rain on the roof of the tent was a comforting staccato, and he ached for his warm bed and a hot bath.
Just another day or two.
Casel sat in Valda's tent on the bench near the entrance. She was still giving him the silent treatment, but she'd told him to come in and talk to her. She was meditating when he arrived, her legs crossed under her, and she whispered something so quietly he couldn't hear.
He blushed, and looked back out at the rain. She didn't deserve him eavesdropping on her.
There was a candle on the foldable table in front of her. Casel didn't know if that had any special significance to a Lashlander. He'd been born in Sval, a neighboring kingdom to the west, and his family had been builders for generations before immigrating to Tunvyr, where there were better opportunities. That hadn't really worked out. His thoughts returned to his parents, and he frowned out at the storm.
Thunder cracked though the sky, and he jumped. A few seconds later, the bright flash scored the sky. He sighed, sinking deeper into his uncomfortable seat. He didn't know why Valda had asked him to see her, but he still wasn't really pleased with her attitude.
He shouldn't have said the things he did. He'd felt bad from the moment they'd come out of his mouth.
On the other hand, while he hadn't been kind with her, she couldn't just sit around and whine all day.
The rain began to die down, becoming a light drizzle, and then intermittent drips as water fell from the broad-leaved trees to the ground below. The fog began to lift.
On either side of the road a few meters away from the tent, lines of poplars extended into the distance, the legacy of the old Ronan highway they still used. In any case, the water pooled in the sunken depressions in the road, or filled in the holes where cobbles had been stolen or simply lost. The pools of water rippled in the wind.
As Casel contemplated the infrastructure of empires past, Valda abruptly stood, licking her fingers and putting out the candle. She stretched her legs and sat down beside him on the bench, leaning on him to soak up the heat his larger body produced.
"I'm sorry Valda," he began, "What I said was out of line... I was under some stress in my personal life, not that that's an excuse, of course-"
She cut him off, waving her hand.
"It's fine, Casel. I said some things too. I regret using such language to refer to you, Thane."
"You're forgiven. For what it's worth," said Casel, "I think you'll make a great Jarl."
She sat awkwardly at his side.
"Thank you."
She seemed to realize she was leaning on him, and inched away, stiff as a plank. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, twisting her fingers through her long blonde hair. She looked away
There was a long, tense moment.
Was she going to say anything else? She looked back up at him. Was he supposed to say something?
After a long moment, Casel moved to stand. Shaking his legs to get rid of the pins and needles.
"I should go. We have a long ride tomorrow."
Valda looked at him, her fair features etched into an impenetrable mask.
He walked back towards his hammock a bit deeper in the woods, strung between two of the rain-soaked trees. There was a churning in his gut, like he'd made a mistake and didn't know why.
He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath of the humid air. It was probably nothing, and if it was important, he was sure Valda would have told him.
***
Khunisa lay at the foot of her her bed, staring at the ceiling. She brushed her fingers through the sleek black wig on her dresser, teasing the gold clips threaded through it. Outside, thunder crashed, lightning lit the night, and rain pounded deafeningly on the metal tiles of the roof.
Why did Tunvyr have such awful weather?
In the intermittent light of the weather, she saw her expensive silk curtains hang limply on their brass rods. Several dresses was casually tossed over a chair. Her makeup was haphazardly arrayed on her vanity.
She tried to close her eyes, but the loud noise and random bright flashes made any attempt at sleep totally useless.
Khunisa rolled out of bed, slipping a thick cotton bathrobe over her nightgown to ward off the chill.
She snuck out of her room, noting that there was a candle lit in her mother's study.
She crept downstairs, shivering as the cold stone floors chilled her bare feet - she still wasn't used to the cold climate of the West.
She sat on the futon in the living room, looking into the remains of the fire in the hearth. Some said that you could see hints of the future in fire, but all Khunisa saw were fitfully glowing embers. She felt herself doze off, covered with a thick woolen blanket.
It felt like moments later when the front door of the house opened, a servant leading the new arrival to the table.
"Could you bring me tea? It's been a long day."
That was Khenet, her big brother! Why was he here, and why so late? He had his own apartment in the city proper.
Moments later, Khunisa heard the delicate tapping of her mother's slippers on the stairs. She hid her head under the cover, following some strange impulse.
"Khenet! What a pleasant surprise!"
There was a rustling of fabric that Khunisa thought must be a hug. Chairs scraped on the stone floor as they both sat down.
"Sorry to wake you, A'um."
"Nonsense, I was working on paperwork for the company. Don't trouble yourself."
The servant returned with the tea, and there was a pause as the sound of pouring liquid accompanied the smell of chamomile and honey.
"Now what's wrong, darling?"
"Can't a man visit his mother with no ulterior motive?" asked Khunisa's brother.
"Not with that expression, Khenet, I gave you life, I know you too well."
"I could never keep anything from you," Khunisa could imagine Khenet's smile.
"I'm just worried," he continued, "The Jarl and her entourage got back from the funeral this afternoon. We didn't see much action during the Thalaheim attack. Squad Ansuz and Isaz fought the most, as usual, but what if next time it's just Casel? The guard can't be everywhere! He and I've never even seen real combat before."
A chair creaked as someone leaned back.
Her mother spoke up, hesitantly. That was out of character for her.
"I can't say I was involved in a tremendous amount of traditional combat, but sometimes you must simply trust him to follow his training and his instincts. There's no magic solution for all the world's ills. If there was, I would know about it!"
There was a pause, and her mother spoke softly.
"I know how you feel Khenet. There were nights I sat waiting at the door when your father was part of an operation. I'll tell you what, Bring him to dinner some time. I want to meet him."
They both chuckled, Khenet somewhat more subdued.
"Now come along. I won't send you back into the cold. Your old room is as you left it."
"I would, but Casel is probably waiting up on me. Thank you for the tea, and for the advice. I'll bring him by soon."
"Wonderful, darling. Take care, and sleep well."
There was more rustling of clothes, and the clinking of a teacup being set down on the table.
"Alnu khariba, A'um," said Khenet.
"Alhabat hamena, darling."
The door opened and closed.
A few minutes later, the candle was blown out, and her mother's slippers tapped their way upstairs.
A few minutes after that, Khunisa dozed off once again on the soft futon.
***
Loose translations:
Alnu Khariba = "Don't stay up too late"
Alhabat Hamena = "Stay safe"
Just another day or two.
Casel sat in Valda's tent on the bench near the entrance. She was still giving him the silent treatment, but she'd told him to come in and talk to her. She was meditating when he arrived, her legs crossed under her, and she whispered something so quietly he couldn't hear.
He blushed, and looked back out at the rain. She didn't deserve him eavesdropping on her.
There was a candle on the foldable table in front of her. Casel didn't know if that had any special significance to a Lashlander. He'd been born in Sval, a neighboring kingdom to the west, and his family had been builders for generations before immigrating to Tunvyr, where there were better opportunities. That hadn't really worked out. His thoughts returned to his parents, and he frowned out at the storm.
Thunder cracked though the sky, and he jumped. A few seconds later, the bright flash scored the sky. He sighed, sinking deeper into his uncomfortable seat. He didn't know why Valda had asked him to see her, but he still wasn't really pleased with her attitude.
He shouldn't have said the things he did. He'd felt bad from the moment they'd come out of his mouth.
On the other hand, while he hadn't been kind with her, she couldn't just sit around and whine all day.
The rain began to die down, becoming a light drizzle, and then intermittent drips as water fell from the broad-leaved trees to the ground below. The fog began to lift.
On either side of the road a few meters away from the tent, lines of poplars extended into the distance, the legacy of the old Ronan highway they still used. In any case, the water pooled in the sunken depressions in the road, or filled in the holes where cobbles had been stolen or simply lost. The pools of water rippled in the wind.
As Casel contemplated the infrastructure of empires past, Valda abruptly stood, licking her fingers and putting out the candle. She stretched her legs and sat down beside him on the bench, leaning on him to soak up the heat his larger body produced.
"I'm sorry Valda," he began, "What I said was out of line... I was under some stress in my personal life, not that that's an excuse, of course-"
She cut him off, waving her hand.
"It's fine, Casel. I said some things too. I regret using such language to refer to you, Thane."
"You're forgiven. For what it's worth," said Casel, "I think you'll make a great Jarl."
She sat awkwardly at his side.
"Thank you."
She seemed to realize she was leaning on him, and inched away, stiff as a plank. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, twisting her fingers through her long blonde hair. She looked away
There was a long, tense moment.
Was she going to say anything else? She looked back up at him. Was he supposed to say something?
After a long moment, Casel moved to stand. Shaking his legs to get rid of the pins and needles.
"I should go. We have a long ride tomorrow."
Valda looked at him, her fair features etched into an impenetrable mask.
He walked back towards his hammock a bit deeper in the woods, strung between two of the rain-soaked trees. There was a churning in his gut, like he'd made a mistake and didn't know why.
He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath of the humid air. It was probably nothing, and if it was important, he was sure Valda would have told him.
***
Khunisa lay at the foot of her her bed, staring at the ceiling. She brushed her fingers through the sleek black wig on her dresser, teasing the gold clips threaded through it. Outside, thunder crashed, lightning lit the night, and rain pounded deafeningly on the metal tiles of the roof.
Why did Tunvyr have such awful weather?
In the intermittent light of the weather, she saw her expensive silk curtains hang limply on their brass rods. Several dresses was casually tossed over a chair. Her makeup was haphazardly arrayed on her vanity.
She tried to close her eyes, but the loud noise and random bright flashes made any attempt at sleep totally useless.
Khunisa rolled out of bed, slipping a thick cotton bathrobe over her nightgown to ward off the chill.
She snuck out of her room, noting that there was a candle lit in her mother's study.
She crept downstairs, shivering as the cold stone floors chilled her bare feet - she still wasn't used to the cold climate of the West.
She sat on the futon in the living room, looking into the remains of the fire in the hearth. Some said that you could see hints of the future in fire, but all Khunisa saw were fitfully glowing embers. She felt herself doze off, covered with a thick woolen blanket.
It felt like moments later when the front door of the house opened, a servant leading the new arrival to the table.
"Could you bring me tea? It's been a long day."
That was Khenet, her big brother! Why was he here, and why so late? He had his own apartment in the city proper.
Moments later, Khunisa heard the delicate tapping of her mother's slippers on the stairs. She hid her head under the cover, following some strange impulse.
"Khenet! What a pleasant surprise!"
There was a rustling of fabric that Khunisa thought must be a hug. Chairs scraped on the stone floor as they both sat down.
"Sorry to wake you, A'um."
"Nonsense, I was working on paperwork for the company. Don't trouble yourself."
The servant returned with the tea, and there was a pause as the sound of pouring liquid accompanied the smell of chamomile and honey.
"Now what's wrong, darling?"
"Can't a man visit his mother with no ulterior motive?" asked Khunisa's brother.
"Not with that expression, Khenet, I gave you life, I know you too well."
"I could never keep anything from you," Khunisa could imagine Khenet's smile.
"I'm just worried," he continued, "The Jarl and her entourage got back from the funeral this afternoon. We didn't see much action during the Thalaheim attack. Squad Ansuz and Isaz fought the most, as usual, but what if next time it's just Casel? The guard can't be everywhere! He and I've never even seen real combat before."
A chair creaked as someone leaned back.
Her mother spoke up, hesitantly. That was out of character for her.
"I can't say I was involved in a tremendous amount of traditional combat, but sometimes you must simply trust him to follow his training and his instincts. There's no magic solution for all the world's ills. If there was, I would know about it!"
There was a pause, and her mother spoke softly.
"I know how you feel Khenet. There were nights I sat waiting at the door when your father was part of an operation. I'll tell you what, Bring him to dinner some time. I want to meet him."
They both chuckled, Khenet somewhat more subdued.
"Now come along. I won't send you back into the cold. Your old room is as you left it."
"I would, but Casel is probably waiting up on me. Thank you for the tea, and for the advice. I'll bring him by soon."
"Wonderful, darling. Take care, and sleep well."
There was more rustling of clothes, and the clinking of a teacup being set down on the table.
"Alnu khariba, A'um," said Khenet.
"Alhabat hamena, darling."
The door opened and closed.
A few minutes later, the candle was blown out, and her mother's slippers tapped their way upstairs.
A few minutes after that, Khunisa dozed off once again on the soft futon.
***
Loose translations:
Alnu Khariba = "Don't stay up too late"
Alhabat Hamena = "Stay safe"
2.1 - Duty
Casus Belli
In the Shadow of the Mouse
- Location
- Florida
2 - Duty
Yoef's eyes were locked on the hands of the Prophet of Kyv, or specifically, the Book from which he was reading the sermon. The cave echoed with the sound of the man's whispery words, and voices seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.
At the center of the grand room, laid out on a podium, was the God-King himself, a dessicated corpse of a child, glowing with the sickly blue fire of the cursed god Kyv. A seventeen-pointed star of arterial blood served to contain the corruption that such a magically powerful corpse emitted. If the barrier had not been there, all of the acolytes, Yoef among them, would already be vomiting blood, poisoned by the powerful and corrupt magic.
Wisps of energy filled the room, illuminating the dried out husks impaled on organic-looking spikes which emerged from the walls. This had once been the official ritual chamber of the Empire, the corpses could be as old as a thousand years, their residual thaumic energy helping to smooth out the eddies which occurred in a ritual as powerful as an Ascension.
Yoef snapped out of his reverie in time to join into the chant with the rest of the acolytes. A lapse would be noticed, and being noticed in a negative context was not conducive to his continued survival.
"Kyv brynna Fraszgroen, i ztadhr hisza madrw. Sokjar lif veiga bani. Sokjar bani veiga Kyvan lif. Bisza sokjar madrw! Kyv!"
The chant repeated itself, and Yoef activated the little bit of magic he could do without too much sacrifice, hiding the mnemonic hand movements inside his robes. He bit his cheek hard enough to draw blood, and blooms of light oozed from cracks in the world, which themselves blazed with every color and no color. A rainbow of unimaginable colors shone in the room, lighting up the people in the room and the magical energies as if from the inside, a baleful shimmer. From somewhere in the distance, an eerie, not-quite-violet light illuminated the mystical fields in the room. Feelers of light extended from the cracks and stretched to touch the Book, which was itself linked to the corpse.
Around the corpse was a tremendously powerful shield, harnessing the power of a hundred blood sacrifices to contain the energy of Kyv's fire, protecting the body of the god-king.
All magic required tremendous sacrifice, and Yoef could only maintain the magic sight for a little while without more blood, so he released it, the various energies and colors folding back between dimensions, where they hid from physical sight.
Yoef almost collapsed from the shock of breaking the spell in such an environment. The blood in his mouth had turned into thin yellow slime, the spell having been fueled by its destruction. It wouldn't poison him, it had only become phlogistonic bile, a mystically inert result of blood magic. He swallowed it down, nearly grimacing at the acrid, burnt taste.
One of the dozen deathly-pale captives on the edge of the diagram whimpered, her shivering aggravating the bleeding runes carved all over her body. The Priest in charge of the sacrifices pushed her forward. As soon as she breached the protective barrier, there was a blinding flash of light, like a lightning strike, and the blue glow in the corpse flared for a moment, before stabilizing. The captive was, of course, vaporized, except for an oily smoke which lingered in the air. It would smell like a tarpit by the time the ritual was done.
One by one, the rest of the prisoners were fed to the light, nearly-imperceptibly increasing the blue power within the god-king's corpse as each was sacrificed.
The ritual began to fade. It had been hours of stabilization chants and fiddling with runes, but finally, the magic returned to dormancy. For some reason, the Prophet had chosen to sacrifice every one of their captives in one session, which was highly unusual, and by the end all of the acolytes' nerves were shot. For all their sakes, Yoef was glad nobody had made a mistake.
Yoef trudged towards his private chambers in the Labyrinthine dormitories. As a promising acolyte, he'd been assigned a private room in which to practice, but in reality, the acolytes were given very little downtime. He just used it to sleep in.
He made his way through the winding tunnels below the Red Mountain, stumbling with exhaustion. The tunnels were ancient, part of the 'undercity' of the ancient imperial Temple City, and they were therefore etched in detail with images of brutal tortures and murders. Many had scrawls in ancient dried blood, and the floors were permanently stained a sinister dark brown.
Finally arriving at his room, he pushed open the heavy oak door, locking it behind him and igniting a lamp with a sharp sliver of metal against his ring finger and a word.
"Brinna!"
The lamp blazed to life, the magical blue flame rapidly replaced by the natural orange of burning oil.
There was someone on his bed.
"Good evening, Acolyte," said the woman, dressed in an extremely abbreviated nightgown, with only her long hair protecting her modesty.
"Uh... Hello? Who are you?"
She sat up, and Yoef's gaze instinctively fell to her porcelain breasts.
"My name is Veya Maien, personal aide to the Prophet," she said casually, brushing her bangs out of her face.
His blue eyes snapped back to her gray ones. This woman could kill him with no consequences. He froze. Her eyes were sharp, she was on the knife-edge of violence.
"H- how can I help you, sir?"
The terrifying woman giggled, her voice like the chiming of bells.
"So for~mal, sweetie! Tomorrow morning, the Prophet is taking a trusted entourage to collect the final sacrifice for the Awakening. In his infinite wisdom, he has decreed that you are to accompany us! So exciting!"
If the Prophet was going then it could be a remarkable opportunity to get a hold of the Book. This could be his chance!
The Book that the Prophet always kept on him was a spellbook, one of the last spellbooks of the Empire. Yoef wanted it, more than anything. He had been a child when he'd lost his family to the Vigilants, and they had taken him and his little brother. It would allow him to destroy those who took his brother from him. They would pay dearly for his loss..
Yoef banished the thought.
"Of course, sir," he said, bowing. "I would be delighted to aid in this quest."
"Wonderful," she said sensually, trailing her hand on his hip as she moved past him towards the door, "We will assemble tomorrow morning in the grand hall," she licked her thumb and brushed it across his lips, "don't be la~te!"
Yoef waited until she was on the other side of the door before he slumped down in the bed, the taste of honey on his lips. He wasn't completely inexperienced with the fairer sex, but that had been perhaps the second most terrifying experience of his life.
He had a difficult time falling asleep that night.
Yoef's eyes were locked on the hands of the Prophet of Kyv, or specifically, the Book from which he was reading the sermon. The cave echoed with the sound of the man's whispery words, and voices seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.
At the center of the grand room, laid out on a podium, was the God-King himself, a dessicated corpse of a child, glowing with the sickly blue fire of the cursed god Kyv. A seventeen-pointed star of arterial blood served to contain the corruption that such a magically powerful corpse emitted. If the barrier had not been there, all of the acolytes, Yoef among them, would already be vomiting blood, poisoned by the powerful and corrupt magic.
Wisps of energy filled the room, illuminating the dried out husks impaled on organic-looking spikes which emerged from the walls. This had once been the official ritual chamber of the Empire, the corpses could be as old as a thousand years, their residual thaumic energy helping to smooth out the eddies which occurred in a ritual as powerful as an Ascension.
Yoef snapped out of his reverie in time to join into the chant with the rest of the acolytes. A lapse would be noticed, and being noticed in a negative context was not conducive to his continued survival.
"Kyv brynna Fraszgroen, i ztadhr hisza madrw. Sokjar lif veiga bani. Sokjar bani veiga Kyvan lif. Bisza sokjar madrw! Kyv!"
The chant repeated itself, and Yoef activated the little bit of magic he could do without too much sacrifice, hiding the mnemonic hand movements inside his robes. He bit his cheek hard enough to draw blood, and blooms of light oozed from cracks in the world, which themselves blazed with every color and no color. A rainbow of unimaginable colors shone in the room, lighting up the people in the room and the magical energies as if from the inside, a baleful shimmer. From somewhere in the distance, an eerie, not-quite-violet light illuminated the mystical fields in the room. Feelers of light extended from the cracks and stretched to touch the Book, which was itself linked to the corpse.
Around the corpse was a tremendously powerful shield, harnessing the power of a hundred blood sacrifices to contain the energy of Kyv's fire, protecting the body of the god-king.
All magic required tremendous sacrifice, and Yoef could only maintain the magic sight for a little while without more blood, so he released it, the various energies and colors folding back between dimensions, where they hid from physical sight.
Yoef almost collapsed from the shock of breaking the spell in such an environment. The blood in his mouth had turned into thin yellow slime, the spell having been fueled by its destruction. It wouldn't poison him, it had only become phlogistonic bile, a mystically inert result of blood magic. He swallowed it down, nearly grimacing at the acrid, burnt taste.
One of the dozen deathly-pale captives on the edge of the diagram whimpered, her shivering aggravating the bleeding runes carved all over her body. The Priest in charge of the sacrifices pushed her forward. As soon as she breached the protective barrier, there was a blinding flash of light, like a lightning strike, and the blue glow in the corpse flared for a moment, before stabilizing. The captive was, of course, vaporized, except for an oily smoke which lingered in the air. It would smell like a tarpit by the time the ritual was done.
One by one, the rest of the prisoners were fed to the light, nearly-imperceptibly increasing the blue power within the god-king's corpse as each was sacrificed.
The ritual began to fade. It had been hours of stabilization chants and fiddling with runes, but finally, the magic returned to dormancy. For some reason, the Prophet had chosen to sacrifice every one of their captives in one session, which was highly unusual, and by the end all of the acolytes' nerves were shot. For all their sakes, Yoef was glad nobody had made a mistake.
Yoef trudged towards his private chambers in the Labyrinthine dormitories. As a promising acolyte, he'd been assigned a private room in which to practice, but in reality, the acolytes were given very little downtime. He just used it to sleep in.
He made his way through the winding tunnels below the Red Mountain, stumbling with exhaustion. The tunnels were ancient, part of the 'undercity' of the ancient imperial Temple City, and they were therefore etched in detail with images of brutal tortures and murders. Many had scrawls in ancient dried blood, and the floors were permanently stained a sinister dark brown.
Finally arriving at his room, he pushed open the heavy oak door, locking it behind him and igniting a lamp with a sharp sliver of metal against his ring finger and a word.
"Brinna!"
The lamp blazed to life, the magical blue flame rapidly replaced by the natural orange of burning oil.
There was someone on his bed.
"Good evening, Acolyte," said the woman, dressed in an extremely abbreviated nightgown, with only her long hair protecting her modesty.
"Uh... Hello? Who are you?"
She sat up, and Yoef's gaze instinctively fell to her porcelain breasts.
"My name is Veya Maien, personal aide to the Prophet," she said casually, brushing her bangs out of her face.
His blue eyes snapped back to her gray ones. This woman could kill him with no consequences. He froze. Her eyes were sharp, she was on the knife-edge of violence.
"H- how can I help you, sir?"
The terrifying woman giggled, her voice like the chiming of bells.
"So for~mal, sweetie! Tomorrow morning, the Prophet is taking a trusted entourage to collect the final sacrifice for the Awakening. In his infinite wisdom, he has decreed that you are to accompany us! So exciting!"
If the Prophet was going then it could be a remarkable opportunity to get a hold of the Book. This could be his chance!
The Book that the Prophet always kept on him was a spellbook, one of the last spellbooks of the Empire. Yoef wanted it, more than anything. He had been a child when he'd lost his family to the Vigilants, and they had taken him and his little brother. It would allow him to destroy those who took his brother from him. They would pay dearly for his loss..
Yoef banished the thought.
"Of course, sir," he said, bowing. "I would be delighted to aid in this quest."
"Wonderful," she said sensually, trailing her hand on his hip as she moved past him towards the door, "We will assemble tomorrow morning in the grand hall," she licked her thumb and brushed it across his lips, "don't be la~te!"
Yoef waited until she was on the other side of the door before he slumped down in the bed, the taste of honey on his lips. He wasn't completely inexperienced with the fairer sex, but that had been perhaps the second most terrifying experience of his life.
He had a difficult time falling asleep that night.