Bride of / Interacting With: Zakroti Unalim @darkwolf687
Miry dabbed at her mouth with the linen napkin, sighing lightly as she pushed her chair back from the table. The breakfast had been very good, and very filling - she just wished she could have eaten more of it. She had only managed about half the food on her plate, and had discreetly slipped much of the remainder onto Zak's when she thought he wasn't looking. As she stood from the table she slipped a piece of fruit - she couldn't remember the name of it, but it was another of the fruits commonly found in Zak's holdings - into a pocket in her trousers. Though her stomach was full now, and feeling altogether too unstable, she knew she'd be hungry again before dinner.
It was of massive consolation that she'd told him, she decided. Now he would know why she had been so.. off, and why she'd been so preoccupied and all. Though she also hadn't relieved the worries entirely, simply transferred them over- she glanced over to her husband and his vaguely unfocused expression and knew he was preoccupied by something. Likely the same thing that had plagued her mind for the last two weeks...
She promptly realized that she had risen from her chair and was simply standing next to Zak, staring at him with a vague, fuzzy grin on her face. She blushed, extending a hand. "My love, I am going to retire to the sitting room- would you like to accompany me?"
They walked out one of the doors at the side of the hall, arms linked. It was just a short corridor before it opened out onto an atrium, with a tall ceiling and balconies on the apparent second floor. It was a square room, with low padded benches and large cushions carefully arranged around a few small fountains that burbled out of the floor and filled the room with the musical bubbling of water.
Miry disentangled her arm from Zak's, wobbling over to one of the large cushions - she was suddenly unsteady - and easing herself down. Her legs folded up underneath her, wide trousers pooling out around her as she settled into the seat, finally shifting to produce the well-worn book of poetry from her satchel. She also produced a wax tablet, which she carefully uncovered, laying it out flat in front of her. It was warm here; she'd have to be careful to not dig too deep into the tablet as she made the foreign letters. While she was getting much better at the spoken language, her attempts at writing still left much to be desired.
As she opened the book, turning to the page she'd last left on, she murmured, "I think I'm getting better at these poetic structures." For the last month she had been meticulously working at this book, translating a verse or maybe two a day. It was an epic work, a chronicle of creation. Whether it was of their own universe or another, Miry wasn't yet certain, and Zak had given her exactly no background information before offering the book for her perusal. Enough certainly seemed like the Gemmenite priest's telling of the tale, but it was just... wrong enough to confuse her. Of course she had attended service in the temple at Mu'Jupostat, it had been expected of her, but their rapidly spoken poetic verse had left her gleaning only snippets of her husband's family beliefs. But no author of fiction could have been this elaborate in their description... She had suspected for some time that it was actually one of their holy books, and he was deliberately not telling her so as not to cloud her mind.
She pushed all those thoughts out of her mind, focusing on the text and the text alone. The first few lines blurred, fairly self explanatory, but the concluding two of the stanza made her blood run cold. ...E gandroz diil, haelia diil E meldoz gehiez weli kalabe nagaia.
She read the words several times, heart racing a bit. She had to have mistranslated something. ...And she had given land, horrible land, and driven her children to go there to death... No, it had to have been wrong. Two lines to such a monumental atrocity, it could not have been right. And if it was the holy book, as she suspected, and was in fact speaking of their creation... where was the mention of the war? The three elder sons turning on the beauty of their mother's creation- where was the destruction? She had abandoned her children, yes- but she'd tried to save them, tried to heal them first.
Timidly, her voice trembling, she gave voice to her concern. "My love? Surely a mother would not... surely she would not abandon her children to die, right? I understand that is the custom of the east but..." She did not dare look up at him, afraid he would laugh- either at her terrible skills of the language or her ignorance and naivety.
Domesticky Zakiria fluff! They finish breakfast and retire to a sitting room, Miry works on her language lessons and gets confused by the Westerlings and their poetry.
A rather short, but solidly built young woman. What she lacks in stature she makes up for in shape, with a buxom (yet still rather slender) frame. Her hair seems to dominate her small form, her masses of silky violet curls cascading to brush the backs of her knees, and her strikingly large eyes are vivid violet, so bright they seem to slightly glow in dim light. Her lips are full, stained at the moment with berry juice to give them a deep reddish cast, and her skin is fair, unblemished, and rather quick to flush. Her skin's sparkle is quite pronounced, even in dim candlelight.
Lady Keilienza Zeosnen
kay-lee-EN-za zee-OHS-nin
Race: Gemmenite Age: Eighteen Element(s): Fire Height: Five feet, exactly on the point.
Bio: The Zeosnen family has history. So much of it that most have forgotten what, exactly, they did to be awarded a handsome duchy and a permanent place in the royal palace. One of the oldest, and most influential, families in Gemmenia, they've lived for as long as they can remember in the lap of luxury. With a veritable trade empire, serving markets in every corner of Gemmenia, and vast tracts of land of their own, anyone fortunate enough to share their surname will want for exactly nothing in their life.
Keilie was the eldest of nine children born in the direct line of inheritance. Her family was no stranger to the Drakken reaping- it seemed at least one daughter from every generation had been taken- and thus they were careful to ensure their lands' inheritance through the male line only. Keilie was not to inherit, but she was definitely to marry, be it another Gem lordling or a Drakkan.
As she grew she was given the finest education possible- trade negotiation, diplomacy, history and philosophy, courtly graces, all the other things that a noble woman should know. She was also educated extensively about both the Eastern and Western drakken, at least with as much information as was available on this side of the spine. Her younger siblings, all brothers, were growing into courtly gentlemen as well- but with every new brother her parents seemingly treasured her even more, lavishing her in expensive gowns, fine gifts, servants to attend her every whim.
Her parents had arranged her marriage with meticulous precision - though of course none of the engagements would be final until a day after her twenty-second birthday, once she was safe from the claws of the Reaping, but it was considered prudent to have the arrangement in place well beforehand. Her parents were confident that she would not be chosen- though she did not lack in beauty or form, they were convinced that a sum of money would have the reapers turn a blind eye and take, perhaps, her less-aesthetically-blessed cousin. So they took a risk and let her meet her future husband when she was only sixteen.
Almost immediately, sparks began to fly. Lord Aliazen Lysendrei was any girl's dream. Tall, handsome, charming, just a few years older than Keilie herself, heir to an estate rivaling that of the Zeosnens. He promised her the moon and stars and she fell for him, dreaming of their future at every court function they were permitted to see each other at.
A few days after her eighteenth birthday, the young women of the imperial palace were called to stand for the reaping. She stood proudly, her finest gown on her, pockets heavy with small purses of coin and jewelry. Of course the Drakken tried to pick her- she was glowing, radiant, confident in a crowded room of terrified others. She offered the coin with only a smile, but the guards did not even pause, roughly seizing her.
Her father, having half-expected it, stepped away from the wall behind her and offered a sizeable sum. It was only a small amount from the family coffers, barely enough to be missed, but it was (they hoped) far more money than the Drakken reapers would ever see. But seemingly the reward of keeping her as their prize was even greater. They took the sum- and held her, though they gave her a small luxury. Two hours to pack her belongings and say her goodbyes.
Saying farewell to Ali (as she had taken to calling him, a pet name that he only ever encouraged) was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. He took her hands in his, his soft, graceful fingers that had never been sullied by blood, blade, or labor, and vowed that he would find her, even if he had to find the men to flatten the Spine, inch by inch. He would find her and bring her safe to his side again, to the life of luxury she deserved. She must not let her spirit be broken, must not let her sense of worth be tarnished by a brutish lord's disregard. He pulled her to him then, his voice heady in her ear as he whispered that even if the lord she was given dared sully her body, it would not matter on their own wedding night. Promised again that he would find her, whatever the cost.
At that point he let her go, helped her gather her things- gowns and boots and pretty, useless things, things of sentimental value, gifts he'd given her. As he helped her close her chest, passing her a cushion to take for her convenience on the carriage, he again pulled her close against him and kissed her. A warm, desperate kiss, a kiss that begged for more- more that they had neither time nor privacy for.
He helped her into the carriage, helped her load her chest of belongings, and was roughly torn away by the reapers. Her goodbyes died on her lips as she turned to watch him fading into the distance, his sapphire-blue flames outlining him in a glow before the Drakken caravan crested a rise and he vanished from sight. His words and touch were seared into her memory.
She was a lady. She'd remind the Drakken what that entailed, and demand the respect she was due. She was not afraid of them- she'd learned their culture and their history, and exactly where and how she could press an advantage in any social or academic situation. She may not have been a warrior, but she was a scholar, socialite- and a lady of highest class. She was prepared for this.
...right? Other: Her father is officially titled a "Grand Duke" but as she is not set to inherit she simply uses the title Lady. Her education included precise control of her element, but for the most part she's been taught to use it for entertainment and interest only, not as something to use as a weapon. Adult Content Preference: Fade to black please.
Unlike her husband, Scyrven Gunnvaldr did not mind the bustle of the lower city. She certainly drew a lot of attention, as much for her stature (standing half a head above many of the males, and almost a full head above the few females she saw) as her attire. She wore full armor, as the custom, though her armor was nothing at all like what your average Drakkan wore. Compiled of multicolored metallic-looking scales, most in shades from russet to ruby, it was clear it was some sort of trophy of the beasts she had slain. Dozens of the vicious wyrms that wreaked havoc on Drakka's southern border had fallen under her blade, and she'd made her armor tunic out of them.
The tunic was long, falling in its multicolorful shimmers to just above her knee, the sleeves ending at just her elbow. Black hardened leather armguards tucked under them, ornately stamped but otherwise entirely functional, and similar leather armor clad her legs. The helm she carried under her arm was of similar sleek design, made to elongate her head and give her an almost unearthly silhouette. But it was off her head, her wild rust-colored hair falling unchecked to her shoulders. Scraps of cloth, bone, feathers, and various other trinkets - trophies she'd taken from her old kills and still maintained in pristine condition - studded the tiny braids she kept.
Most of it was for show, of course, and show it certainly did. She looked wild, intimidating, and above all free. Though for the moment she kept her arm linked with her husband's, it was clear that she danced to her own drum.
Aside from the looks their party was given, their journey was uneventful, and soon they arrived at their manor house. Gwillim immediately took his leave to go to the family altar, and Scyrven herself settled in a corner of the main hall to watch the family's play.
Alfhildr emerged from her rooms a few moments later, and Scyrven stifled a laugh. Trust her daughter to be able to sneak away from the party to attend to her own pursuits first. "Alfhi, come and sit beside me." She called, patting the bench beside her.
"Watch your cousins spar. Use your lessons; how would you best them?"
The young Drakkan woman, already standing just a centimeter shorter than her mother, grinned wolfishly and plopped down, goldenrod eyes sparking and intensely focusing on the fights between her cousins. She murmured to herself, hands rising in front of her and instinctively making tiny motions as she mentally joined the fight.
Scyrven watched with approval. Her daughter was young, naive, and clumsy at the best of times, but her heart was in the right place. She made a few corrections, whispered into Alfhi's ear. Upon watching Gwillim come into the room and scatter his cousins, she gave a hearty laugh, rising to her feet. He went to speak with his father, of course, and she waited until they were finished before extending her hand to her husband. "Milord, come and spar with me." She called. "Let us show our young cousins how it is really done."
Numbness. Disbelief. That was what filled Nenra Corislen's head, and had filled her for the three nights since she'd been snatched from her quiet home. She'd been unceremoniously stuffed into a carriage that may as well have been a cage, herself the last addition after four other girls had clearly been in there for quite some time. As she settled, claiming one of the corners for herself, she felt the other girls' gaze on her.
Oh, they were all beautiful. That was the blessing of such a cramped space - even with Nenra's horrible eyesight, she could see her carriagemates in some semblance of clarity. One had glorious burgundy-chestnut curls bouncing down to her waist, another glossy ruby locks that pooled on the bench around her as she sat, fine skirts tucked prettily under her. Four sets of jeweltoned eyes sized her up (and clearly found her wanting) as she self-consciously brushed at her scruffy shoulder-length whisps of brown. One actually tittered at her homespun skirts as she fanned them out around herself.
"I thought they only took pretty girls." Whispered one of her carriagemates, one who was so thin and graceful she looked to be made of porcelain. Two of the others giggled in apparent agreement.
Nenra's cheeks burned, but she said nothing. She kept her eyes to the floor, averting her gaze. She would not say anything to them, nor to anyone else they encountered. Not to the guardsmen, not to anyone.
She did not belong here. Not among these glorious jewel-toned creatures. It had been over a decade since the reapers had come to the sleepy village of Myllendh- they had taken one of her cousins, once, and rumors had gone around to say the girl was so unfit that she was not chosen for the honor of being taken by a lord, but rather given to the castle guards for their pleasure afterwards.
As they approached the Spine - the castle Shadow Worth little more than a blurred lump of doom in her vision, the other girls' demeanor instantly changed. The pretty air gem who claimed to be a lord's daughter, prattling on and on about how the gods chose her for this duty, finally shut her pretty berry-stained mouth and permitted herself to be held by one of the others.
Nenra did not allow herself to cry and shake as these pretty noble ladies did. There was a chance she'd be sent back. She was not nearly so pretty as these other gems, and surely the guards would see that and send her away.
She thought it was going to happen, as she was lined up with all the other Gems and inspected top-to-bottom. She lacked the figure of many, the luscious hair and brilliant eyes. The Drakken who walked up the ranks of Gems paused in front of her (a few paces away, far enough that she could make out only his sneer and swaggering stance) and moved closer - and she did not flinch, her eyes already defocused as though she could not see at all.
"...lovely eyes. The rest of her needs work, but... some like theirs breakable."
When she still did not react, the drakken moved forward, letting her see his grotesque face in some aspect of clarity, and slapped her across the face hard enough to nearly send her sprawling. "Avert your eyes when your superiors are talking to you."
She wordlessly filed off after the other girls, into the bare room she was assigned, and went quietly to her bed. She barely remembered to brush her hair, combing through it with her fingers and calling the dust and grime out of it to her hands, which she cleaned in the basin of water so kindly provided.
In the morning, having risen with the dawn, she pulled on the shapeless gray clothes, looking at herself in the mirror with disdain. Bland, boring. Nothing to her. If not for her golden-green eyes (oddly striking, even to herself - though too peculiar to be beautiful, really) she might well be forgotten, a daughter of the humble earth left to rot here.
She set her jaw, turning away in disgust, tears blurring her eyes. She barely reacted to the pounding on her door, until the second time when it seemed it would fly off the hinges. She rose, opened it, and proceeded down the stairs with the trickle of other Gems. Settling at a table surrounded by such vapid pretty things as before, she ate nothing and drank only a glass of water.
She would be nothing, take nothing, give nothing. She would be forgotten, she promised.
Two hulking blobs walked into the middle of the room, the chatter dying out as they passed. As they stopped, the smaller one barked out an order to bow before the... alleged prince.
Nobility meant all but nothing to Nenra, who remembered nothing except the tithe Myllendh had to pay to the baronet who technically owned the land. They dutifully set a portion of the harvest aside every year from the time she could remember, though since the plague the soldiers had not come to collect it. Living in the middle of nowhere with no-one of note around, the idea of nobility held no weight for her. What held more weight was trustworthiness, perseverance, hard work, altruism. From the stories told of the Drakken, they held none of those values. Even - no, especially - their princes.
She remained in her seat, still as ever, eyes unfocused and vacant. There was a clattering as dozens of other brides rose to their feet, some choosing to simply stand, some seemingly choosing to kneel, some bowing or curtsying as though they were at court.
"It is hot here." Zakroti sighed heavily as he rode along the path up towards the large gates of the manor, the sun beating down on the procession of warriors. It gleamed off of Zakroti's silver-white armour, Ice Crystal gems gleaming in the light. He was flanked on either side, ahead and behind by mounted warriors clad in black armour who were surely feeling the heat even worse than he. The largest among them was just shy of 8', and the shortest 5'11, like Zakroti himself.
Behind this esteemed vanguard marched a column of 80 soldiers clad in chain mail with nasal helmets and long kite shields and behind them 20 non-combatant servants. Their commander and standard bearer marched ahead of him, the standard bearer wearing a Rehwar head in place of his helmet and the Commander wearing a decorative plate cuirass and closed helm. The banner bore the White Wyvern of House Unalim on a party per pale Red-Blue background, with the numerals 3-1 beneath it and above it the words Vivpre Star Krepre
Zakroti looked down towards Miry, one of his arms wrapped around her gently. He smiled and leant in, whispering "Oeiz Aigz, what do you think?" The century old manor was certainly imposing; its tall walls were not made of the white and red stones that the West used for building and was rather of local materials like a coarse limestone or dolomite of sorts, yet it had some of the telltale architectural signs of the West all the same; the walls bore many carvings, and on either side of the gate rose up a tall statue of a Drakken warrior to stand ever vigilant. The gates themselves were adorned with many symbols and carvings and at its centre where the gates met was a circle with a Wyvern carved into it as if it were coiling around the gate. The Wyvern was, naturally, painted white and bore a small red ruby for an eye.
Miry had spent much of the ride in silence, all but gaping around (that was, when she wasn’t writing in her parchment “book of travels” or squinting at the small book of poetry she’d brought for herself) at the wonders they passed. She’d grown comfortable enough in the saddle in the last year that she was no longer desperately clinging onto the reins (or her husband) at every slight bump, and so she took the time in the saddle as an opportune time to work on her mastery of her husband’s language. She still rode with him, of course, as she had for the last year – she liked the contact, and felt somewhat safer than she would have on her own mount – but she was not so dependent on him as she was the previous year that they had made this journey.
As they rode through the city she fanned herself with a hand, her Gemmenite sparkle not being the only thing contributing to the faint sheen of her skin. Though she knew, as compared to the men in full plate armor, she had nothing to be complaining about, the sun’s rays were doing quite a number on her. The pale blue-violet outfit she wore, a simple long sleeved blouse and trousers so wide-legged they gave the appearance of a skirt, was far cooler for certain than the heavy armor that the rest of her party was wearing for certain. Still, she was uncomfortable, and she mumbled something in affirmation to Zakroti’s comment as she adjusted the ivory wyvern brooch that held her blouse’s high collar closed.
As they paused in front of the gates of a (particularly opulent) manor house and her husband’s arm snaked around her, the young woman leaned back into his touch. “It is magnificent, milove, but – is the king not to be displeased that we have brought so many soldiers?” She swayed slightly in his embrace, the world spinning around her and a wave of nausea suddenly overcoming her. This happened quite often nowadays, she bitterly mused, as she quickly brought one hand to her mouth to cover it while attempting to swallow the foul sensation and taking a sharp breath through her nose to steady herself. After a moment, when she was certain she could speak again, she murmured, “What duties will I need to attend? I’ve brought the mending and sewing and you know I don’t mind brushing down the horses, and failing that there’s always my embroidery. I’m certain you’ve important people to socialize with and I don’t ever intend to be in the way.”
"We are not that numerous. A single detachment, as fine soldiers as they are, should hardly worry him. The road is long and hard, I do not trust the wilds or our enemies. Any displeasure at a small band of soldiers taking up board in my manor during my stay should be minimal." Zakroti smiled and brushed Miry's hair back slightly, leaning down to kiss her cheek, whispering the rest of what he had to say into her ear. "I'm hoping to spend most of it with you, of course, aside from a few bits of business... Are you okay?" Zakroti wpapping his arm around her as she swayed to make sure she could not fall off. He carefully dismounted and helped her down to the ground beside him, offering her his hand.
The already present servants - with a few warriors to oversee them - opened up the gate to their arriving lord and the castellan came forth to kneel before the column. He had short cut hair as white as chalk, sunken eyes and a crooked nose as if it had once been broken and hadn't healed properly. His voice was remarkably deep, even for a Drakken; "Oeiz Muth, wre grunda odzi.” (My Duke, You Honour Us.)
"Rise. I trust the rooms are prepared?" Zakroti replied, glancing around the courtyard as the Castellan rose from his knee. Aqueducts carried water to the Manor on either side of the courtyard and from hung planters, filled with plants and flowers. Far from the brightest and most beautiful plants one would ever see, but in this part of Drakka any plant life was a welcome change of scenery.
"Rightly so my Muthseran. I have... More news. Urgent news it seems. The Muthseran sent a letter ahead I am supposed to give you." The Castellan approached Zakroti and handed him an envelope sealed in red wax. Zakroti broke the seal and took the letter from within, unfolding it and scanning his eyes over the cursive writing.
Once he had finished, he placed the letter back in the envelope. He called out for everyone's attention and raised the envelope into the air. He heard several people call out as servants and warriors quickly fell into line alongside the soldiers he had brought so he could properly address them. He linked arms with Miry and led her out before them to make the announcement.
"It is my great honour to inform you that his grace the Muthseran has fathered a child, the third daughter of his life time at the age of 613." Zakroti called out with a beaming smile. The Drakken hollered in approval and a chant of 'Sunna, Sunna!' echoed out through the courtyard. Zakroti raised a hand to silence them and continued "He has elected to name her Silwel. May her days be long and merry."
"Epenas an Jaedi, Sunna an Wel e lalyent!" The assembled warriors and servants responded.
Zak’s comment had made Miry all-over giddy, a faint flush rushing to her cheeks as she leaned her head against his shoulder. "You honor me, milove." she mumbled. As he dismounted, helping her to the ground, she stumbled slightly - that had always been the most awkward part of riding for her, if nothing else because her tiny height made the jump down somewhat more daunting - and caught herself against his side, linking arms and entwining her fingers with his.
As he scanned the letter twice over, his face impassive, her brow furrowed and she stepped closer to him, clearly worried. But that spot of worry soon passed as his face broke into a slight smile, and he guided her by the arm to be standing at his side while he made the announcement to his soldiers.
The grand duke was a father... yet again. She already could not keep count of the number of uncles that her husband had, and the cousins too were an absurdly monumental number. As the words settled over her, a slight pang in her lower abdomen made her press her free hand over it protectively. She leaned against Zak's side, murmuring something about good fortune and grace and dignity for the child, the words of the assembled soldiers washing over her in an incomprehensible fog.
This had set the tone remarkably well for her own confession, she figured. Perhaps she would give it upon going to his bed tonight. But the small voice in her head told her to wait, wait until after the Choosing - surely it would be anticlimactic, to hear it from his own whelp of a bride so soon after hearing it from his grandfather, and at any rate... He was back here. They were back here. Clearly she hadn't satisfied him, not if he was going to claim another-
The little nasty voice reminded her that he was probably going to give her away, trade her for someone else. That maybe the affection he displayed so often was just a ruse for complacency, and he actually had no intention of keeping her. Another wave of nausea - bitter, jealous nausea - rose up in her throat, and with a trembling hand she discreetly called a small globe of water from the aqueducts and wrapped it around her neck and temples (where it clung vaguely shimmering silver), letting the soothing coolness calm her. Nope. Not thinking like that.
She smiled up at Zak, if a little distantly, and fumbled for a subject to distract him with. "This greenery... I've not seen anything quite like it even at home. There must be a massive difference in plants all across Drakka...And is it not hard to get anything to grow here? Your people must be so dedicated to its upkeep."
"Oh massive difference in flora and fauna, climate too..." Zakroti trailed off for a moment as he ran his eyes over the plants again. "It can be hard to keep them growing in the desert parts, but that's all the more reason to do it. Prestige and... Beauty. Even in the harshest of places, there is life, nurture it and in time you can make it peaceful and beautiful. Your people don't really understand it or appreciate it, as much as they say they do."
Zakroti leaned down and kissed her gently, holding her to him as he led her towards the Manor proper, still talking. "Yes, it takes a lot of dedication. But you appreciate it more for it. All the lands of my family and kin are shining examples of this. It cost our people dearly but we succeeded... And the cost itself taught us and built our character. It made us brave, diligent and empowered us."
Zakroti reached the large oaken doors and the servants opened them up for him, letting them step into the entry hall that itself doubled as the Great Hall. A long room running half the length of the building in total, with many tables and chairs on either side of a great grated fireplace in the centre of the mosaic tiled floor. A single long table with two thrones was laid out was at the far end of the room, slightly elevated above the rest. Behind this table was a fresco depicting a large Drakken in shining armour with a flowing red cloak, standing over many bodies after a great battle. In one hand he held a large sword and in the other he held a severed Drakken head. Around him was gathered his army, cheering in victory as one of his attendants brought forth the enemy banner.
Throughout the hall, pillars rose at equal intervals, each pillar elaborately carved so as to have a Wyvern coiled around it, wings clasped close to its body. At the base of each of these pillars, where the Wyverns head rose from the wall, was a font or basin; from the mouth of the Wyvern sprang a steady trickle of water into the basin, which was then slowly drained away into the Manor underworks. At this time, however, only one of these fountains was active, from which a servant occasionally cooled themselves with or drank from.
Other frescoes adorned the walls to the side, commemorating other moments in history or mythology. Each side of the room were a pair of large doors that headed off into the wings of the Manor and at the far end of the room a staircase rose up onto the second level of the hall. Banners hung from this level, dangling over the great hall and swaying lightly in the breeze from the door. Tucked away in the corner by one of these staircases was the doorway into the kitchen, far smaller and more inconspicuous, as was expected of servants’ doors.
The sunlight that poured in through the four large stained glass windows on the front of the building caused beautiful patterns on the floor and pillars.
Certainly, this was a lavish building; It often hosted parties and gatherings at this time of year, particularly when a member of House Unalim had business with another great warlord or his family, and so it had been built to impress and dazzle. The soldiers with him split off and settled down at the tables, hungry from the journey. The head servant headed for the kitchen door immediately, shouting orders.
"Not quite home but it's quite excellent still, don't you think?" Zakroti said as he looked to Miry with a grin.
Miry listened intently, fumbling in the satchel at her hip to produce the parchment notebook and stick of charcoal, flipping the (about half-filled) notebook open to the first blank page and beginning to sketch in the aqueducts and hanging planters, writing down what Zak said about it being a symbol of honor. As he leaned down, she rose up on her tiptoes, returning the kiss lightly, and she put the charcoal away - promising herself to come back to her drawing later - and wrapping her arm around his waist so she could lean against his side as they walked into the manor.
She gasped slightly as she looked around, eyes lighting on the details of the carvings. The amazement at the detail in the Westerlings' architecture had never worn off; every time she entered a new place she was overcome once more with awe. Wordlessly she padded over to one of the fountains that had been turned off, gently running her fingers over the details. "How do your people do these things..." for even the architecture in the Gemmenite capital, while ornate, had clearly visible chisel marks and other imperfections. But these pillars seemed to rise out of the floor seamlessly, and entirely perfectly. "It's absolutely marvelous..."
Shaking herself out of her mesmerized state, she returned to her husband's side, twining her fingers through his, offering him a smile as well, and stretching up on tiptoe to attempt to kiss him. "It's absolutely beautiful. Your family's estates are... simply marvelous. I suppose that is to be expected, when you have so many years to master your crafts, but... it is still so amazing."
In a moment of childlike excitement, she called some water from the basin, guiding it with her free hand. She flicked it through the air in the stained-glass light, causing rainbows to scatter around the room. Vividly she imagined raising a family here, watching them play under the sparkling lights, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings- plus it would be so warm and dry here that children would be less likely to succumb to the seasonal sniffling sick that had always seemed to plague them, even in Gemmenia. "If this city were safer it would be a brilliant place for a family..." she murmured, her hand lightly pressing over her lower abdomen again. Was it swelling already? Or was her mind just playing tricks on her? At most she was two months along - it had been two months since she'd properly bled, though that was no guarantee of much of anything. It seemed a very short time for her body to be making signs of that. She was probably just making it up out of desperation for him to keep her around...
After a moment of this introspective inspection, of course, she realized what she'd said out loud and slightly panicked, hurriedly dropping her hand to her side and pressing her face into her husband's chest. "Sorry, milove. I don't mean anything by it."
She clenched her fist and promised herself she would stop thinking of it, for just three more days. Just until whatever was going to happen at this Choosing would hurry up and happen - and if she was still his bride at the end of it, then she would let him know her suspicion.
Zakroti watched her approach one of the pillars, smiling at her amazement and watching her examine it. He took a few steps towards her and looked over her shoulder to it.
"Our control over earth is greater than yours. An experienced sculptor crafts from the bones of the world, he can run his hand over the surface of stone and engrave words without tools. By the end of his life, he can mold stone as though it were wax." Zakroti murmured to her with a raise of his brow as he leant down to meet Miry's lips quickly. Then he laughed heartily as she drew water from the font and covered the room in rainbows, admiring the light that shimmered through the room.
He drew her closer to him and looked back down to her as she murmured, noticing as she placed her hand on her abdomen then dropped it quickly to her side and pressed up against him. He wrapped his arm around her and placed his hand atop hers, guiding it back to her abdomen "Meant nothing by it...? Are you...?" He asked trailing off a bit and furrow on his brow slightly, feeling his heart flutter slightly and his lips curl up hopefully, in spite of himself.
Miry had seemed to have something on her mind a lot this past week, always seeming to be thinking about something else. She had seemed worried at times, even... And come to think of it, he had awoken just a few days ago to find her missing from his bed, having complained about being sick to the apothecary. He had supposed she had eaten something that disagreed with her the night before but in hindsight...
She froze as he took her hand again, a flush washing over her face. She pressed her face into his side for a long moment before mumbling, "..I t-think? I don't... know?" Emotion welled up in her, and she flung her free arm around him and pulled herself tightly against him, shaking sobs and tears being pulled from her body as she clung to his side. "I'm s-sorry... I was sc-cared and I- didn't..."
She tried to steady herself, clinging to him and taking shaky deep breaths to calm herself down. Annoyingly, she'd lost control of her cooling necklace of water, and it had soaked into her shirt and hair, both of which now clung annoyingly around her face and neck and chest. She sniffled slightly, shaking her head a bit. "Y-you're not mad at me, are you? For n-not... telling you? I didn't want you to think, not - y'know, not.. with us being h-here. And. You- getting another girl. And- that. I didn't want you to t-think it was me just- wanting attention."
Zakroti's face broke into a large grin and he held still, processing what had been said. She was... He laughed, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close to him. He felt giddy inside, his heart fluttering--a slight sense of trepidation at the thought of being a father, true, but it was covered by his elation. He wasn't entirely sure what to say or how to respond, and so his first words had several false starts
"I- You're-how far along is- Mad at you? How could I be mad at you! Thus is wonderful news!" He managed with a beaming smile, holding her into his embrace and kissing her again. He opened his mouth to speak but then quickly closed it, shaking his head slightly and laughing once more before finally adding "I could never think that of you."
He noticed the water splashed around her shirt and hair, and knelt down so that he was level with her; he brushed her hair out the way and missed her forehead lovingly, looking into her eyes. He placed his hand against her chest and carefully heated her shirt to help her dry off as he held her.
"This other girl we'll be getting, don't worry about her. It's not going to take my attention away from you in the slightest, oeiz aigz." He said with a reassuring smile, moving his hand up from her shirt to her hair and heating that slightly instead now.
Now that the tears had come once, they came again quickly. Miry flung her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him, her whole body shaking with her quiet tears of happiness- and slight lingering terror. She did her best to respond to his comments as they came, resulting in an awkward moment of them both babbling over each other. "Two moons, I think- I..." at that point she met his lips again, pressing up tightly against his body and kissing him once more. "I'm sorry." she again mumbled.
As he kissed her forehead and started gently warming her tunic, she blushed and pressed up close against him, wrapping her arms tighter around him and resting her head on his shoulder. "You know I wouldn't mind if you'd rather share her bed. I know... I know I'm not much to look at, or to hold, or to .. do things with." Her breath caught in her throat at that thought but she shook her head slightly to dispel it, instead snuggling closer to him, so that her mouth was by his ear so she could whisper – "Also, I'm not letting go. If ya want to go anywhere you gotta take me with you." A slight giggle escaped her then, a big contrast from her shaky tears from just a bit earlier. "...I'm going to be a mother. The mother of your child. That's... terrifying. And wonderful. But terrifying... I'm really not making sense, am I? I'm sorry my mind is- going faster than a racehorse. Just. I'm." she trailed off uncertainly, then shook her head slightly to dispel such thoughts, trying to string coherency back into her head. "In whatever case. I'd imagine there's social obligations you've got to attend today? Everyone in the city will be here for the choosing, of course, it'll be high time for a festival or.. something, is it not?"
Zakroti kissed her again and listened to her talk, before shaking his head something fierce "No, Miry, I would far rather share your bed than the bed of all the women of Gemmenia." He said as he ran his hand back down from her hair and wrapped it around her, holding her close to him. He laughed a little and continued "I don't want you to let go. And I understand, it is somewhat frightening... But more wonderful, I think. You and I and a little baby; Who would have thought it?" Certainly he would not have thought, not a year ago. When he had came to the spine last, he had expected his brides to be little more than annoyances whom, if he was able to get pregnant, would provide more even littler annoyances. And yet it did not seem so, and rather had found himself elated to have Miry with him. Things had continued much as they had before, that much was true, but rather than being annoying she was instead a welcome breath of air between arduous duties and discussions.
"Yes, we'll have to attend some festivities later. For now, let's rest and I'll fill you in on them. The servants will be bringing food soon and I am sure you're hungry and tired from the journey." Zakroti took her hand gently and led her across the room to the head table, sitting himself down upon one of the two thrones and inviting her to sit beside him, never letting go of her hand as he smiled up at her. Then he took a couple of long sniffs of the air and grinned "They haven't told me what we're having. I suspect boiled Reabak from the smell, but I can't be sure if that is for now or later. There's also a Carcasarus and- oh I think there might be a boar too- cooking in there, but those two are certainly for the feast later. I can't recall, have you tried boiled Reabak yet?"
Miry blushed, seemingly consoled by the answer, and happily followed Zakroti to the head table. As she settled into the seat beside him (needing to comically scoot herself into the seat, and looking more like a doll than an actual person in the drakken-shaped furniture) and heard him babble about the food, she grinned as well. "I think we may have had it at a feast last year... for your grandfather's birthday, or something? I don't remember, but I'm certain it will be delicious." She too sniffed the air, trying to discern the spices that were being cooked with.
"Do you know if there's any.. kiondu fruits here?" She asked, altogether too cheerily. They were a hardy vine fruit that was about the size of her own people's oranges, with a thick and bitter rind and segmented, very deep purple pulp, and were exceptionally juicy, with a sweet and slightly spicy flavor. "I tried one at the market a few weeks ago and really liked it, the merchant said he'd got them from someone just outside the capital. Do they grow here, or..?"
"Ah yes I think you're right. I do like boiled Reabak, it has a lovely taste. Although the aftertaste can be a bit strong on its own. Hm. I think Kiondu does grow here yes, I do hope they'll serve some. Adding a bit of spice and sweetness will help with he aftertaste." Zakroti said with a grin. He'd have some more Kiondu bought for the stores of Mu'Jupostat then. Perhaps he'd see if one of the plants could be added to the gardens of Mu'Jupostat, it would be far from the first time a plant from another part of Drakka had been transplanted there.
A servant came over from serving the soldiers with a pitcher and poured liquid into his goblet. When she moved to pour it into Miry's, Zak reached out to stop her. "She is with child. Fetch her water from the front instead." The servant nodded and took the goblet, scurrying away towards the fountain to fill it.
Zak listed his goblet and examined it for a moment, taking a sip of it and placing it back down onto the table with a nod. "Ah. It's fermented Wildfire pod sap. It's got a very sweet and flavourful taste, but it's also strong."
The servant hurried back over and placed Miry's now water filled goblet onto the table with her, taking the pitcher back from the table and bowing away again.
And just a few minutes later, several other servants dashed out of the kitchen, dishes and platters in hand and began to lay the food out on the tables; bread and fruits as well as the dishes of boiled Reabak. The hungry soldiers set into it immediately and the head servant brought two dishes over to Miry and Zak
"The best dishes, my lord and lady. Boiled Reabak marinated in sweet wood sap, then served with diced fae stool." The servant announced as he placed the dishes down before them and bowed away. Another servant brought a small tray with some sliced bread on it to the table and a third brought over some Kiondu fruit. Zak took his knife and fork and cut into the slice of Reabak meat, placing it into his mouth and chewing it.
"It's rather fresh too." Zak commented after swallowing, smiling and cutting into it again. He spent breakfast explaining the various festivities of the coming days to her, pausing occasionally to answer questions - and to become lost in his head. For though he tried to think on to the days ahead to explain social events such as the fights in the dueling pits to her, he found his thoughts wandering away from such mundane topics and always coming back to Miry and their unborn child.
Miry had always been uneasy being waited upon - even a year of living sort of as a lady hadn't been able to break her of the itch that she should be on her feet being one of the many bustling around. She sat on her hands, to prevent herself from trying to reach out and help. Upon Zak's comment, her face flushed and she let out a small squeaking sound. "You know I could have fetched it myself." she mumbled to him. But she settled back in the chair after a moment, taking one of the tasty fruits and cutting it in half, the purple juice pooling on her plate. She scooped one of the segments of it into her mouth, relishing in the burst of flavor as she chewed it and happily listened to Zak's talking. Periodically she'd interject with a comment about some influential family or another - someone whose dynasty she'd read of in history books - but for the most part she was happy to hear him chattering.
Zak was really preoccupied - likely by the same thing that Miry herself was distracted by. Her free hand settled over her abdomen as she nibbled on the fruit (as delicious as the meal was, her stomach was a little bit uneasy and she did not trust herself to eat a whole plateful) and she let herself daydream about the future. Her daydreams were slightly soured by the lingering fear of... being rejected, the terror of having a child (the rumors she'd heard in the courts in Gemmenia, about few brides ever surviving childbirth) - but overall she was entirely content to imagine their future together.
The Unalim party arrives in the capital and gets themselves settled in their manor. Miry is a vibrating puddle of estrogen flailing about maternity and Zak finally quits being oblivious. Also, they’re very cute.
A very tall Drakkan woman with a wild air about her, with rusty russet locks falling to her shoulders in disarray and a scowling tan (though somewhat ashen) face, with deep-set amber eyes thickly lined in kohl. Most notable about her appearance is her peculiar doubled ram horns, with one curl on either side extending to the sides of her face, gently sloping down, and the lower curl wrapping around behind her ears and extending past her jawline.
Race: Drakkan Age: One hundred and eighty-nine Element(s): Fire and Air Height: Seven feet, four inches
Bio: The daughter of a proud warlord, and the fourth of seven children, Scyrvensrel Talyrrth grew up entirely in her elder brothers’ shadow. Her father a veteran of the Anathos War, one who held many, many Gemmenite brides for his heroism. Her brothers, most years and years older, were off to wage war in her father’s army for most of her childhood.
At the age of 55, when she was still a child by most regards, she snuck off from her life (which had been mostly learning to manage an estate from her mother, though naturally she was trained into peak physical condition) to join her brothers’ forces. First refused from the fight, then put in as a grunt soldier – after all, her brother claimed, if she was stupid enough to get killed she deserved to die – and eventually working her way to the top and unseating him as captain of their house’s force.
For years she remained in the skirmish in the northern reaches of Drakka, earning notoriety for her ferocity and skill. Her father’s forces as a whole rose to prominence under her guidance. Finally, as she approached her eightieth birthday, she was at last summoned home by her father. Hoping it was some sort of military distinction, laurels for her successes, she was instead afforded what was arguably the worst punishment known to Drakkenkind: a season at the king’s court. A season of being stuffed into silk gowns painfully tight and ill-fit to her frame (her father had sent her measurements specially to a tailor in Gemmenia, but something was seemingly lost in translation, as they did nothing but constrict her broad shoulders and muscled thighs) and courted by “gentlemanly” older males – who thought the best way to prove their worth as a husband was to drag her to their bedchambers. Multiple gowns were torn and “gentlemen” nearly gelded to ensure she maintained her virtue.
After the disastrous season she was eager to don her armor and get back onto the battlefield, but she was scarcely away from home a few seasons before she was called back, this time for an “arranged engagement.” One of her father’s old comrades of the Anathos War had proposed a union of their houses – he had a son only a few seasons younger than Scyrven herself, and proposed that they be wed.
She met young Gwillim Gunnvaldr only shortly before they were to be married. She held utmost respect for his person and his achievements, though little love came between them. As she would later come to reckoning, she much… preferred the female form to the male for pleasure, though of course procreation – as her duty required – called for a mate of the opposite gender.
She shared her husband’s bed, eager to bear fruit for the union (their familial honor was at stake, after all) but struggled for many years to conceive a child. A few times she had dared to hope – only to have those hopes dashed on the rocks after miscarriage. It was with bated breath that she waited, and beyond all odds bore a beautiful daughter Alfhildr twenty-one summers ago.
She had wept, for the expectation was for her to have a son, but nonetheless treasured the rarity that was her daughter and sheltered her so much as the environment of Drakka would allow. After twenty-one summers, their daughter is strong, athletic, and growing so well. It was more than Scyrven dared to hope for.
With this being said, her husband needs a second child, and attempts to conceive since Alfhi’s birth have been fruitless. At last she and her husband come to Shadow Worth together to choose another… brood mother to ensure the longevity of their dynasty. Other: Married to @tracyarmav’s Gwillim. They’re taking Brides as a unit, I think. Her speaking and header color is e3a777. Adult Content Preference: Fade to Black please!
An exceptionally diminutive young woman, standing less than four and a half feet tall. Though altogether rather plain in appearance, she carries herself with composure and dignity, a light of wisdom and confidence sparking in her blue-violet eyes. Her mousey blonde hair is combed into a glossy, smooth sheet, lightly curling down to the base of her shoulder blades. She dresses plainly, though her clothes are of quality.
Race: Gemmenite Age: Nineteen Element(s): Water Height: Four feet, five inches
Bio: Oh, how times have changed. Aymiria Unalim, born Aymiria Cassiell, was once a servant’s daughter, a servant herself – minstrel and eventually handmaiden for the third-in-line princess of a realm.
A year ago today she was taken in a reaping, barely eighteen. Her twin sister, an artist and painter, was too. She watched her sister die. And her sister-bride, all for a man’s greed. Not even the greed of the man who was to be her husband, for some – cruel, horrible plan of crowns and kings and so on and so forth.
Such massive affairs should not have involved her. She wept, even as her future husband tried to comfort her and reassure her it was going to be okay – in a manner most unbecoming of a Drakken, she would realize. He had not forced her into his bed, nor any of the horrible rumors that surrounded the alliance.
But she’d seen her sisters scars, the burn branded deep into her abdomen. She’d gotten lucky, somehow. Most of the other girls would not have.
Living in her husband’s keep, free to pursue whatever she wanted – she was a lady, at least, sort of, and she didn’t have daily chores and errands to run – she educated herself about his people and his languages, and he was nothing but courteous and kind, if distant. His ruling grandfather, though less kind, did nothing to directly harm her. She did ultimately grow to appreciate her place, and to consider the implications of her presence. The grandfather quickly grew irate that she’d not shared her husband’s bed, not presented him an heir.
He never pressured her, but as she grew to spend more time with him – learning the language, for her tongue was clumsy and most unbecoming of a future duchess, learning the literature and history of the fallen empire, all of the intricacies of his people’s culture and religion – at some point during all of that she did fall for him, badly, and of her own volition began to share his bed at night and stay by his side during the day.
This decision was made three moons ago. Now she stays with him always, hoping to someday be properly married to him in his people’s custom, rendering her as his equal and his wife, not his bride (an important distinction.) Recently she’s felt quite… unwell, and is uncertain - both afraid and daring to hope that perhaps her husband’s seed has taken root and she’ll be able to bear him a son, and fearing what may come of it.
Today, they move towards the Drakken capital once more, Zakroti being under orders from his grandfather to choose a second bride. Riding beside him, in the column of black-clad soldiers as she has grown accustomed to, Miry can't shake the crushing feeling that she's been a disappointment. In her heart she knows Zak would never leave her, but she cannot shake the thought that perhaps she'll be left behind for better, more traditionally beautiful brides. Even if she's not, she's convinced she will be relegated once more to the task of servitude, being turned into a handmaiden for her new sister-bride and being expected to kiss all notions of her love goodbye.
A pit of jealousy turns in her stomach. She won't let that happen.
Other: ((take her out of the pairing rotation, as seen above she’s been happily a bride for the last year)) Her color for speaking and headers is c3a5fd.
A slender young bride with pale olive skin, shoulder-length light brown whisps of hair, and striking gold-green eyes. Her clothes are very simple, clearly crafted by hand, and she carries herself confidently. She has a very serious depth in her face, a vaguely haunted look always in her eyes.
Bio: A quiet, motherly young Gem, Nenra spent her early childhood in part of a large, happy family, working a farm with her eight siblings and few dozen cousins. The town they lived in was mostly comprised of their extended family and two others – trading was a simple affair, the inn was managed by one of the grandmothers, as were the shops, and everyone else stayed in the fields or the farmhouses. Subsistence and self-reliance was the way of life.
That all changed when Nenra was fourteen. One of her younger cousins contracted a mysterious illness – the poor girl’s whole body was covered by a multitude of small white, oozing boils, and she quickly grew weak, feverish and delirious, and expired a mere two weeks later. No one else had seemed to have caught it, and amid the mourning there was a spark of hope that no one else would die.
The day after poor Liilin was buried, four of her other cousins started sprouting boils and coughing. It spread likewise throughout the entire town until all but a handful of the residents were sick. Nenra was diligent about scrubbing herself, washing her hands almost until they bled whenever she had to be around her family, and doing everything in her power to keep the farm running in between taking care of them. One of her younger brothers left the town on the fastest horse to track down an herbalist from a better city – there must have been something to be done.
But there was nothing. When he returned with a doctor, the doctor grimly informed them that it was the weeping pox. Nothing could be done about it except keeping the victims comfortable and well-hydrated – if they were strong, they would survive. If not, they would perish. The doctor left the town, advising they raze it to the ground, for the illness could linger in wood and earth for years after it had faded, waiting to strike again.
By the time the plague left the town, it was absolutely decimated. Her mother and father were dead, many of her aunts and uncles as well. Not an adult in the village had escaped the illness, and those that remained alive were so weakened by it that they were scarcely able to take care of themselves, nevermind the farms and gardens. Of the children and teens, many had perished as well, but those that didn’t soon bounced back to full functionality, if an exceptionally scarred, disfigured functionality.
Word spread along the road that the town was to be avoided like… well, like the plague. Nenra was fine with that. There was a harvest to be brought in – with not a working soul above the age of twenty – and … too many dead to bury. The words the physician had spoken haunted her. “burn this place, or it will be everyone’s grave.”
They couldn’t bury the bodies, so they burned them. The earth elementalists among the group stirred the ash into the earth, tilling the soil and sprouting a forest of massive rosebushes from it. Mother’s roses, as later visitors to the town would identify them as.
Then they went about their lives, as best they could. Nenra and a few of the other girls wound up as caretakers of the orphaned children, and taking care of the elderly. Everyone with Earth magic quickly became adept at control of it – they had to be, with twenty sets of hands doing the work previously done by a hundred. Farms had to be kept, linen spun and woven, cows milked, goats herded. Life continued on.
They all knew of the drakken, of course. One of their cousins had been taken when they were younger, but they’d imagined word had gotten out about the pox and that the village no longer had young, desirable girls. So it was to shock and horror when the Drakken reaping caravan rolled through their village. They took one look around and decided that this was a stop for supplies only, and raided the storehouses and didn’t bother to pay the few shopkeepers for their trouble.
As they were getting ready to leave one of them noticed Nenra. Though she was hardly a specimen of beauty, she was the most beautiful eligible girl in town (by simple virtue of not having the deep pockmarks and raised scarring from the pox) and eventually, after some discussion, ordered to come along.
She would have resisted, but they threatened violence. She took one look at her scared, heartbroken family, set her jaw, and stepped into the carriage. No more lives would be lost on her watch. Even without her to take care of them, the little ones were getting older and were now able to help in the fields and take care of their own mothers and grandmothers. The younger teens had mastered the element enough that they could continue to bring in the harvest, to till the fields and plant them.
They would survive. Sure as the soil beneath her feet and the sun on her shoulders, they would endure. Whether she would or not, she was not so sure.
Other: N/A
Adult Content Preference: Fade to black please! Her speaking and ping color is 77c6ae.
A slender young bride with pale olive skin, shoulder-length light brown whisps of hair, and striking gold-green eyes. Her clothes are very simple, clearly crafted by hand, and she carries herself confidently. She has a very serious depth in her face, a vaguely haunted look always in her eyes.
Bio: A quiet, motherly young Gem, Nenra spent her early childhood in part of a large, happy family, working a farm with her eight siblings and few dozen cousins. The town they lived in was mostly comprised of their extended family and two others – trading was a simple affair, the inn was managed by one of the grandmothers, as were the shops, and everyone else stayed in the fields or the farmhouses. Subsistence and self-reliance was the way of life.
That all changed when Nenra was fourteen. One of her younger cousins contracted a mysterious illness – the poor girl’s whole body was covered by a multitude of small white, oozing boils, and she quickly grew weak, feverish and delirious, and expired a mere two weeks later. No one else had seemed to have caught it, and amid the mourning there was a spark of hope that no one else would die.
The day after poor Liilin was buried, four of her other cousins started sprouting boils and coughing. It spread likewise throughout the entire town until all but a handful of the residents were sick. Nenra was diligent about scrubbing herself, washing her hands almost until they bled whenever she had to be around her family, and doing everything in her power to keep the farm running in between taking care of them. One of her younger brothers left the town on the fastest horse to track down an herbalist from a better city – there must have been something to be done.
But there was nothing. When he returned with a doctor, the doctor grimly informed them that it was the weeping pox. Nothing could be done about it except keeping the victims comfortable and well-hydrated – if they were strong, they would survive. If not, they would perish. The doctor left the town, advising they raze it to the ground, for the illness could linger in wood and earth for years after it had faded, waiting to strike again.
By the time the plague left the town, it was absolutely decimated. Her mother and father were dead, many of her aunts and uncles as well. Not an adult in the village had escaped the illness, and those that remained alive were so weakened by it that they were scarcely able to take care of themselves, nevermind the farms and gardens. Of the children and teens, many had perished as well, but those that didn’t soon bounced back to full functionality, if an exceptionally scarred, disfigured functionality.
Word spread along the road that the town was to be avoided like… well, like the plague. Nenra was fine with that. There was a harvest to be brought in – with not a working soul above the age of twenty – and … too many dead to bury. The words the physician had spoken haunted her. “burn this place, or it will be everyone’s grave.”
They couldn’t bury the bodies, so they burned them. The earth elementalists among the group stirred the ash into the earth, tilling the soil and sprouting a forest of massive rosebushes from it. Mother’s roses, as later visitors to the town would identify them as.
Then they went about their lives, as best they could. Nenra and a few of the other girls wound up as caretakers of the orphaned children, and taking care of the elderly. Everyone with Earth magic quickly became adept at control of it – they had to be, with twenty sets of hands doing the work previously done by a hundred. Farms had to be kept, linen spun and woven, cows milked, goats herded. Life continued on.
They all knew of the drakken, of course. One of their cousins had been taken when they were younger, but they’d imagined word had gotten out about the pox and that the village no longer had young, desirable girls. So it was to shock and horror when the Drakken reaping caravan rolled through their village. They took one look around and decided that this was a stop for supplies only, and raided the storehouses and didn’t bother to pay the few shopkeepers for their trouble.
As they were getting ready to leave one of them noticed Nenra. Though she was hardly a specimen of beauty, she was the most beautiful eligible girl in town (by simple virtue of not having the deep pockmarks and raised scarring from the pox) and eventually, after some discussion, ordered to come along.
She would have resisted, but they threatened violence. She took one look at her scared, heartbroken family, set her jaw, and stepped into the carriage. No more lives would be lost on her watch. Even without her to take care of them, the little ones were getting older and were now able to help in the fields and take care of their own mothers and grandmothers. The younger teens had mastered the element enough that they could continue to bring in the harvest, to till the fields and plant them.
They would survive. Sure as the soil beneath her feet and the sun on her shoulders, they would endure. Whether she would or not, she was not so sure.
ClocktowerEchos
Hitman
Blizz
shylarah
