ClocktowerEchos
Hitman
Blizz
shylarahThe lord who stood before her said nothing for an impossibly long time, studying her, scrutinizing every inch of her. Try though Nenra might, she could not stop herself from fidgeting, self-consciously smoothing her hair and puffing out her chest to try to give the illusion of a more ladylike figure.
Still he said nothing, not until he drew closer another pace. He slapped her. Only his fingernails caught her cheek, though the force of the blow still turned her head and sent her staggering. Four perfect crescent-shaped cuts slowly filled with beads of blood, stinging pain and ringing in her ears swelling in her head as she slowly straightened to face the lord, horror plain on her face.
“I demand a different tribute. Look at this one. Did you deliberately seek the least beautiful whore in all the land? Did you mean to humble me? Humiliate me?” The warlord’s voice rang out through the room. His hand went for the blade still suspended on his belt-
And as swiftly as he spoke in defiance, he was silenced, a silver spearpoint streaked in crimson suddenly protruding from the gap between his neck guard and chestplate.
Nenra gaped, wordlessly, silently staring as the lord (whose name she still did not know) crumbled to the floor, the faceless royal guardsman behind him turning an emotionless stare upon her.
“Come.”
She briefly thought to refuse- she did not want to wind up as the royal soldiers’ plaything, as she figured was the likely next step - but an iron grip clamped down on her wrist and all but yanked her along, her feet tangling in her skirts as she stumbled and tried to follow. The guard scarcely acknowledged the other Drakken in the room, guiding her from the dwindling crowd. Not a word was spoken but a scrap of parchment traded hands as they approached the main gate, the guard who guided her pausing to read by the flickering torchlight, his scowl apparent to even the mostly-blind bride he kept his death-grip on.
“Sire?” the questioning word escaped the bride’s lips before she could stop it, and she gasped in pain as his hand tightened to the point she could feel her bones threatening to snap. But the question bubbled out of her lips unfettered by the pain. “What is happening? Where- Where are we going?”
He didn’t seem to hear her for a moment, quickening his pace as they stepped out into the downpour - Nenra shuddered as the water drenched the lovely gown and her hair in mere moments.
It was not until they were well down a winding, narrow street that the guard spoke, his words monotone. “I am delivering you to your husband.”
“Husband?” She shuddered. “You killed the man who was to be my husband, I thought, sire.”
“I did. Your new husband.”
Despite her running effort to not get herself killed, Nenra quit walking, entirely confused. “Sir?”
The guard sighed, looking around to make sure no one was nearby and dropping his voice. It was clear he did not want to be seen speaking to his charge. He slowed enough to turn to her, tightening his already-painful grip on her and leaning down to hiss in her ear. “Every year a handful of other lords are requested to attend the Capital city during the Reaping. Hard lords, competent ones, full of brutality and cruelness yet untempered by high society. Eager to claim a rejected bride. Does that make the current situation clear?” With that he shook his head, yanking her along and nearly dislocating her shoulder in doing so.
She wanted to ask even more questions, but now she had the grace and mental faculty to keep her mouth shut. Besides, they were nearly to their destination.
Proper terror filled her as they proceeded up the walk through the heavy iron gate. Laughter and the stench of strong beer was already wafting through open windows, and she faltered in her step. The guard yanked her along again with a muffled curse, approaching the door and pounding on it with a heavy iron knocker.
A small Drakkan who seemed to be some sort of footman opened the door, a wide, toothy grin breaking out across his face as he took in the royal guard and the fragile girl he pulled along.
“Lord Bandor will be very happy to see you.” He gestured for them to come inside, but the guardsman did not, instead pushing Nenra in before him. The footman turned, and wrapped his arm around her possessively, hand snaking around to her hip. She shuddered, but there was a strength in his arms that meant she should not pull away.
“You’re a pretty little thing…” he whispered in her ear. “Perhaps I could sample you, before giving you to my lord… I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t think your lord would appreciate it if you soiled his prize.” The words caused a wave of revulsion to build in her throat but she swallowed it. She tried to push his hand away, a futile effort that made him chuckle. But she’d stalled him for long enough.
The corridor widened out into a great hall, a hall full of drunken laughter and too many bodies. The laughter stopped, at least, as they walked in. Nenra flinched, cowering against the doorman’s side, trying to hide from all the suddenly lustful stares turned on her and the clinging, soaking wet evening gown she wore. She didn’t have to be able to see to feel their eyes on her, mentally undressing her and ravaging her.
A low laugh from the high table directed her stare, and the footman kicked her in the backs of the knees, causing her to crumple to the floor.
“It seems lord Sorrak has blessed us tonight!” The call was met with raucous laughter. “Bring her up here, my good man.”
Fingers grasped at the wisps of her hair, tangling at the back of her head and nearly dragging her off her feet. She let out a soft cry of pain, squirming and trying to get her feet back under her, finally managing to and being half dragged, half-shoved forward onto the dais.
The lord pulled her down onto his lap, his breath soured with the stench of heavy mead as his teeth grazed her throat, his calloused hands dwarfing her slender neck and waist as his fingers settled there, roughly pulling her against him.
Two of his fingers hooked into the back of the gown, and with a simple motion the fabric was torn, loose halves of the dress falling down and tangling around the legs of the chair. She let out a yelp, squirming to cover herself, but the lord quickly seized her already-abused wrists, a laugh escaping him as he pulled her arms away from her exposed body, looking her over hungrily.
It took several moments for what happened next to be processed. He shoved her off of him, pushing her to a group of his soldiers - saying something about how they’d earned a night of fun, and since he was such a benevolent lord, they could have their fun with his prize, so long as they didn’t do too much lasting damage.
Fear seized her, fear and revulsion, and she tried to flee, scratching and kicking at the guards who caught her, kicking and squirming like a rabbit caught in a trap-
A trap that was suddenly motionless. There was a clattering bang of a door being flung open, and the raucous hollering that had filled the room stopped, the room drawing so silent a mouse’s sneeze could have been heard.
True bellowing filled the room, screeching words that Nenra’s brain refused to process, and the soldiers that held her let go in a hurry, shoving her to the floor and scurrying away, no longer nearly as brave as they had been just moments previously.
The stone floor was cold on her naked body. She shivered, not daring to get up, waiting for the sudden ringing in her ears to subside enough that she could stand.
A large hand settled on her back, another under her elbow, seemingly helping her up. She scrambled to her feet and whirled around, terror making golden-green eyes wild and harsh, her arms hovering in front of her like she couldn’t be sure whether to cover herself or take a fighting stance. But the imposing armor-clad figure in front of her chuckled, removing his helmet to reveal a young Drakken with rather short horns, very clearly just out of his youth. “Relax, child. I mean you no harm.” He settled his helm over her head, holding her up as she nearly buckled under the weight of it and the fact that it now rattled loosely on her head, and in a smooth motion removed his cloak and tied it around her shoulders.
He admired his handiwork, nodding slightly. It wouldn’t pass any sort of proper scrutiny, but to a quick glance, she could have passed as a recruit soldier.
Realizing the girl was still flinching away, the youth extended a hand. “I’m Baeloth. Recruit, as of a few weeks ago. In service to Warlord Vannoth Mors, whose estate this actually is. You will suffer no harm within these walls, so long as he maintains his dominion here.”
She gaped up at him dumbly, finally managing to spit her name out. “N-Nenra. Nenra Corislen. I- thank you. I...”
The man clapped her on the shoulder, the sheer strength in his form nearly buckling her knees again, and guided her over to one of the tables. Four other young men of similar stature and bearing waited, starting to help themselves to the remains of the feast that had been laid out.
“Shouldn’t I go speak w-with the lord of the house? Sir?” the words welled up timidly, and he looked her over. Several of the others looked at her, throwing their heads back and laughing.
“Ye need t’ give ‘im time to cool down, pretty Gem. E’ll take yer ‘ead off, if ye go t’ talk to ‘im now.” That was an older soldier, denoted by the artful engravings on his suit of armor, who scarcely seemed surprised as he walked by their table. The youngsters snapped to varying stages of attention as he walked past, but quickly focused on Nenra again.
“You’ll likely be bunking with us tonight, we’ll have you talk to the lord in the morning.” Baeloth spoke quietly, guiding her to one of the benches set at the table and handing her a roll, which she chewed on automatically, not tasting it. The bread was coarse and rather bland, but it was food. She hadn’t properly eaten since well before Shadow Worth, which now seemed a lifetime ago…
“Vonnath is not going to be happy.” That was one of the other recruits, who’s name she didn’t know yet.
“Crix is going to get his head handed to him.” one of the others agreed. Silence soon lapsed, Nenra very carefully focusing on the rough wooden table and feeding herself slivers of bread underneath the helm, and not on the five recruit soldiers who now sat around her like there was nothing at all out of the ordinary.
“Oi! Little lady! Baeloth here’s bein’ a twat, didn’t bother to introduce us. What’s yer name?”
“Nenra.” She blurted, her face coloring. “Nenra Corislen, and I’m hardly a lady, sire.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, little lady. Now, Baeloth, mind yer manners and introduce us.”
Baeloth nudged her shoulder, causing her to turn around to look at him, and started introducing his other comrades. Their names were becoming hopelessly jumbled in her head already - Talon, who’d just spoken, Zerin, and-
“You imbecile! Six weeks together and you still can’t recognize us? I’m Riccar!” One of the burlier recruits shook his flagon of ale. The one sitting across from him, quite identical in appearance and demeanor, rolled his eyes.
“Whatever he says. I’m Riccar. That’s my little brother, Biccar.”
“Little?!”
After several minutes of looking back and forth like it was a particularly-enthusiastic tennis match, Nenra shook her head, slumping down in the seat and drawing the cloak tighter around her. She was still shivering, but whether from fear, exhaustion, or cold, she wasn’t quite sure. Chatter had resumed in the hall but it fell on scarcely-hearing ears and nearly blind eyes.
Some immeasurable amount of time passed, before a heavy hand on Nenra’s shoulder startled her out of her reverie. The room was emptying, the cacophony quieting as soldiers trailed off in companies and pairs to find their barracks, and Baeloth (She could tell it was him from the sandy-russet mop of hair on his otherwise bare head – most of the others had put their helms on after eating, but she still wore his.)
“We don’t have an extra bunk in our barracks, unfortunately, so I think you’ll be sharing my bunk.” The hulking youth’s expression was arranged in some apologetic expression. Seemingly he saw her freeze, forgetting how to breathe as she considered all those implications, and he extended a hand in an effort to calm her. “I stand by my promise of earlier. No harm will come to you in the halls of my lord, so long as his soldiers are here. I will place a blanket roll between us so that there will be no accidental contact, if that will put your mind at ease? Come, let us retire – the morning dawns early and I’m certain my lord will have questions for you.” He put his arm around her shoulders in a gesture of companionship, causing her to wince and her knees to nearly buckle as he leaned a portion of his mildly-intoxicated weight against her.
She did not recall the walk to the soldiers’ wing of the palace, nor did she recall being handed the rough linen shirt, the recruits all turning away while she removed the heavy cloak and put on the tunic. It was designed as a proper shirt but fell past her knees, the shoulder seams falling halfway to her elbows and the sleeves draping down over her hands. It was undeniably designed for a brawny Drakken youth, not a gem of her own especially-slender form, but she was grateful for the yards of heavy clean fabric that now draped loosely over her, masking her figure and preserving her modesty.
As promised, Baeloth constructed a barricade of extra bedding between them, splitting his bunk in two. After bidding her goodnight he fell asleep almost in the same breath, and gradually the recruit barracks settled in to the sounds of soft snoring and deep, even breathing.
Nenra couldn’t sleep. How could she? Even with the words that Baeloth had spoken, as much as she thought she should try to trust him…. She could not bear to fall asleep and be left defenseless and unaware should someone decide to take their pleasure on her.
The bunk was lumpy and hot and her body floppy and cold. After much restless contorting and flailing about, she had just begun to find a comfortable position when she heard a loud, slurred voice outside. She could not recognize the words, but her blood ran cold as she recognized it as belonging to the man she’d been given away to, and in a panic she flung herself from the bunk, fumbling with the straps of the recruit’s armor until his sheathed sword and long dagger fell to the floor with a clatter, causing her to hiss and duck into a corner, but no one stirred. She reached for the sword but the flimsiness in her feeble arms made it so she could scarcely lift it. With the long dagger removed from its sheath in hand, she crept to the door, pressing her ear against it so that she could hear the words.
Heavy thumping of boots, as though the speaker was pacing. His words were muffled now, but some were distinguishable.
“….the liver-rotting maggot….show him….first his girl….find the sniveling whelp….make her take…”
Thunder roared in her ears and she felt she might topple over backwards, but she tightened her awkward grip on the long knife, hand inching towards the door that separated them. She had to tell someone. Not the recruits, no – they wouldn’t know what to do. This lord had an air of battle about him, something her new friends lacked, and she couldn’t make them risk their lives. Baeloth had said that he was merely fifty – still a child by his people’s standards. She couldn’t make children fight what sounded like a drunken berserker.
A breath she didn’t know she was holding escaped her, her feet relaxing and her heels coming back into contact with the cool wooden floor. With that contact came a rushing wave of calm, and she shut her eyes and thanked the Mother for the sudden epiphany.
Rushing back to the armor stand, she lifted the helm and cloak as quickly and quietly as she could manage, settling them over her thin frame. Steeling herself, squaring her shoulders, she eased the door open, sliding out into the hallway with silent footfalls. Having made it a good ways down the hall to what she could only assume was the noble’s wing, she was then stopped by a heavy footfall catching on her borrowed cloak, yanking her around and nearly off her feet.
“Where do you think you are going?” The words were sharp and gruff and filled her with terror. But she turned, glad the tangled cloak obscured her body and knife-wielding hand, and glad the helm covered her face. There was a chance he thought she was just an exceptionally runty recruit, right? “State your name.”
In desperation she pitched her voice as low as she could, making a raspy, quiet croak. “Baeloth, on orders from… Warlord Mors.” The petty lord stepped menacingly closer and she quickly, without properly thinking, added, “My lord Crix.” That seemed to appease him for a moment, and he stepped back, removing his foot from the cloak.
She hurried off, making it all of five paces before a blade shot out of nowhere, razors’ edge carving through cloak, tunic, and sending white-hot pain into the point of her shoulder, causing her to cry out in agony and stumble, losing her footing entirely and hitting the floor with a clanging noise. The helmet, far too large for her, rolled off her head, leaving it suddenly plain for all to see that she was clearly a Gemmenite.
The momentary spell was broken and the warlord snarled, drawing his arm back again, spitting something so horrible Nenra’s brain refused to comprehend the words he spoke. In pure desperation she scrambled to her feet, keeping a death-grip on the dagger, and bolted down the hall.
A guardsman burst out of one of the corridors, sword arcing down towards her, and her vision went white as she brought the dagger up, blindly slashing at him to make him stop in his advance. A yell of pain and spatter of blood against her face and chest was her reward, soon followed by a numbness in her arm and a dimly-realized clattering of her dagger hitting the floor.
Her feet seemed to carry her of their own accord, flinging her down the hallway towards the ornate doors that she prayed led towards the warlord’s rooms. As she flung herself against them, Crix and a few of his retainers hot on her heels, they opened with almost-no resistance and sent her half tumbling—
Into a bloodbath. Time seemed to stop as the flickering torchlight from the hall revealed the scene. Everything was washed in crimson, crimson Gem’s hair indistinguishable from the crimson that still slowly seeped into the blankets and dripped onto the floor from pale, extended limbs, emerald eyes glassy and wide in fear and death.
The lord of the house slept beside the corpse, unaware of the carnage – or perhaps the cause of it.
But before she could process that particular thought, the state of suspended animation shattered. A shrill scream bubbled out of somewhere- was she screaming? – and her legs began to crumple as her body stopped, falling towards the crimson-red floor as though sinking through molasses.
A hand seized the remains of the cloak, yanking her back and causing her cry to be strangled off, moments later replaced by a glowing red-hot hand closing around her throat, slamming her against the wall, cutting off her air with a touch so hot it froze her and enveloped her entire form in agony. In the seconds before her vision went completely dark she at last glimpsed the cruel vassal lord’s face in perfect clarity, features marred with hatred, fury, and lust.
The sickening taste of charred flesh and gritty ash coated her mouth, those few seconds stretching out into an eternity of agony as the lord leaned in as though through molten earth, flames licking at his face and clothing and eyes as his rage consumed him.
“You would ruin me, so I have ruined you….”
The darkness settled across her vision, and with its coming all thought and pain faded into oblivion.
Scyrvensrel Talyrrth-Gunnvaldr
Interacting with: Gwillim Gunnvaldr @tracyarmav, Hestia and Tempest @eclecticwitch
The pretty dark-skinned gem, now introduced as Tempest, came to sit beside her. Scyrven flashed a slightly toothy grin at the gem, offering her strips of roasted meat and a thick slab of the heavy, doughy flatbread dusted with bitter herbs and spices. Ordinarily Scy would have scarfed down her plate and likely half of what was left on the table, having had such a light supper and a healthy day of fighting besides, but she was attempting to control her appetite. She was to fight in the day’s opening match, the way the brackets had fallen, and at least two more rounds besides.
Dimly she became aware of Hestia, wearing the soft dress that had been left out for her, sneaking down the stairs and settling beside Alfhi. The poor girl seemed entirely too focused on her plate, but she was being well-tended by Alfhildr. All would be fine for her.
Scyrven made an attempt at small-talk with the pretty Gem beside her. “So where in Gemmenia do you come from?” she asked, between bites.
After the breakfast plates had been cleared away, Alfhi’s petulant words circled at last into Scyrven’s head, pushing out the idle thoughts of fights and the soft bed that awaited them when they at last traveled home. Copper eyes turned to evenly regard her pleading daughter.
To permit Alfhi to attend… She’d need to be under watch, of course – Drakken women were just enough of a rarity that other lords, especially those thirsting and without a bride to soothe them, would likely try their luck if they saw a child unprotected, and Alfhi lacked both the brutality and finesse to ward off an attacker.
Sighing through her nose, Scyrven considered the situation. Bringing two brides and her daughter would just be asking for trouble… but she supposed it would be as good a reason as any for the entire Gunnvaldr family to have an outing. No one would trifle with them, not with their family nearly as large as a warband itself, and their most brutish retainers. Of course, there was no guarantee the people at the gates to the arena would permit them all admittance, but a bit of gold would surely ensure their way in. And Alfhi was right, it would be educational.
With a grunt, Scyrven unfolded her long form from the table. “We’ll have to see what your father says, but at this point we might as well bring the entire clan. I do hope they put up the extra seating structures...”
With that comment, she stepped away from the table, climbing the stairs to return to the bedchamber. The others would ensure the Gem women and Alfhi didn’t stray too far, and she did need to put her armor on for the day.
Soft copper eyes met her husband’s gaze briefly, her full lips curling into a brief smile as they went about their respective daily preparations. The silence that hung between them was a companionable one.
She quickly pinned her mass of twists and braids in a tangle around the back of her head, low enough on the nape of her neck to tuck neatly under her helm, and proceeded to tug her hardened leather tunic on, groaning slightly as her faintly-sore muscles objected. She’d have to stretch once they got to the arena, but otherwise she was optimistic about her physical condition and level of fatigue. She’d certainly do well today, even though it would probably be better politically if she sabotage herself, rather than winning all the glory. There were too many powerful people at play to risk an accident… though perhaps a well-timed one could be beneficial for the cunning social climber.
Pushing those thoughts from her mind, she finished lacing up her armor and returned to the great hall, helm under her arm and kit slung over her back, an optimistic (and feral) look on her face while she waited for the rest of her household to mobilize.
Hearing Zak go off at Ro, at her sass and bitterness of tongue, was a welcome change, though Miry’s stomach turned all the same at the acerbic quality Zak’s words had taken on. As Zak handed a goblet of Mazjamma to Aurora, she took the moment to reach for a goblet and the pitcher herself. A drink would be helpful to dull her emotions, though she knew she could hardly hold the spirits of Zak’s people. Little more than a splash was usually enough to set her into a state of vague complacence with the world around her.
A quiet hiss from beside the table distracted her, and one of the many serving-folk hurried forward, fresh goblet filled of water in her hand and a disapproving scowl on her face as she whisked the barely-filled glass away and shuffled the water into the small Gem’s hand, a second servant reaching out under the guise of refilling Zak’s goblet, placing the pitcher down much further up the table so it would be out of Miry’s reach. “Milady, water for your morning. The lord’s orders for your current state.”
The words were a bit loud, the servant’s tone matter-of-fact, and Miry’s face colored as she chanced a guilty glance at Aurora, praying the other Gem was too entranced in Zak’s words to have paid mind to the brief exchange.
For her part, Miry tried not to pay attention to the words being spoken. Try as she might to focus on anything else, the detailing carved into the pillars around the hall, it was not enough. Images of that morning bled into her head, bled into her heart like the numbness and pain that filled her from the moment she’d seen her sister’s battered body, like the heat from the whirlwind of air and steam that had torn her own flesh—
Zak’s hand settled on her thigh, warmth flowing from his fingertips into her skin, even through the multiple silk layers of her skirts. She was trying so hard to not disturb the recounting but she nonetheless seized his hand in both of hers, wrapping the fingers of one hand through his and kneading knots out of his palm with the other, tracing over every callus and scar and crease and imperfection in his hands and using that to ground herself.
His Blackguard, Gaikus, had spent hours working on her, his expert skill with both magical and mundane (after well over half a millennia, he had enough experience to perform feats of the intersection of water and air and herbal remedy that most would rule impossible) being the only thing keeping her alive. The trap that she and Aery had set, combining all the might of their respective elements, would have likely done little but slow down the Drakkan brute, but for their more delicate Gemmenite constitution it was nearly a death sentence.
Zak had spent a surprising portion of those hours, and the weeks of her recovery, at her bedside. Much of the time he sat motionless, his face unreadable, hand always fidgeting nervously around the hilt of his sword, eyes flicking back and forth from her face, to her injuries, to the door, to the room, to her. He’d held her still when Gaikus’s ministrations caused her to be wracked in pain, and used his magic to draw the heat of her fever away and soothe the fire of the burns.
That was a peaceful memory, at least – she and Zak had scarcely spoken at all of what had transpired in those weeks, and her fevered memory was likely tricking her, but she remembered him reading books of poetry and prayer alike, epic stories and fiction. He had maintained a careful distance of course, but it was clear he was trying to bond with her – trying to atone for what had happened, perhaps, and make sure nothing like it could again.
Her fingers tightened around his again, the tiniest ghost of a smile gracing her lips as she thought wryly that lo and behold, they’d managed exactly that.
Of course, that ghost of a smile faded as her brain picked up on what was left of the conversation – Zak was. Apologizing? To Aurora. And perhaps rightly so, for letting her sister die, but… begging that all blame be taken away from Miry herself? That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
None of this mess would have happened had Aery not been admitted into the room. None of it. She bowed her head slightly, tears pricking at her eyes (and she’d done so well at not crying for all of ten minutes!) and pressed back into the chair, holding tightly to Zak’s hand as though it was her lifeline. A clot of words settled in her throat, words she wanted to speak, but she would hold her tongue until she knew how Aurora would take what had just been laid bare, until she knew how the other bride would respond. She did not want to open her mouth and risk undoing all of Zak’s careful expression of goodwill. So she said nothing, watching the other bride out of her too-bright eyes and clinging uselessly to her husband’s hand.
