Black water lapped at the stone docks of Yarlene. The air was chilly despite it being spring, and the city was deathly silent. The iron smell of blood still lingered, as did Elizabeth. She stood near the edge of the stone harbor, staring out at the endless ocean before her. There was no wind.
She pulled her robes tight against her, her body shaking, even if it wasn’t truly cold. She stood swaying from foot to foot, anxious and riddled with guilt, her eyes wide and engaged in an unending stare. The water began to ripple and her eyes fell to it. A hand reached out from the water, and her blood froze. She stared in fear as the palm slapped the stone. Slowly another hand reached up and soon a figure was pulling itself from the water.
The form swayed, as if exhausted but managed to stand in front of her, water dripping off waterlogged leather. Elizabeth’s eyes softened from fear, to another emotion as the figure’s face was revealed in the tower light.
“[unnamed other guy!]!” She yelped, dashing to embrace the man. The man simply stood in place as she gripped him. Tears began to fall on her cheeks, rolling off her chin, and finally getting lost in the puddle forming below. She blubbered apologies, slowly finding herself out of breath. She heaved, weeping now, sobbing.
“I’m so sorry, [dude]. I didn’t mean to! I just couldn’t have you following me.” She cried, “I’m sorry [guy], I’m so sorry.”
“It was an accident. It was just supposed to be the sail. It was just supposed to be the sail.” She closed her eyes, sucking in a breath, “I’m so sorry.”
She held [person] from her, her face stained red and twisted with worry and guilt, “say something!” She demanded between tears.
[The man] simply stared at her, the same look of shock and hurt on his face as the moment she had stunned him, accidentally dooming the ship, “say something!” She shook him gently.
Suddenly Bro’s face began to melt, a bright flame engulfing his body, and Elizabeth let go in shock. The stench clung to her nose and her ears retreated at the hollow words that broke from the man’s shrinking lips, “why.”
The fire leapt, catching her robe, and just as she felt it burn her eyelids away, unable to take her gaze from the melting broski, she sprung out of bed.
She was sucking in large gulps of air, having stopped breathing in her sleep. Her body was drenched in sweat, and dark rings dominated her eyes. She was alone. A small fire crackled in the corner of her tavern room. She had chosen a room in the city, unable to bring herself to the Inn on the outskirts. She had burned her robes, and ever her clothes underneath, pawning her knife for a new outfit of simple wool pants and tunic, both an undyed white as well as a new cloak: a peasant’s charcoal-tinged-grey. Her tall boots had already caused a ring of salt to form around the knee of her pants, and if she imagined really hard, it was like she was a new person.
But she knew she wasn’t. Despite washing her face countless times, and scrubbing her skin red, she was still the same. She stared in the polished brass mirror as she got dressed, a look of horror ever present in her eyes. She was afraid to blink, afraid of what face she might see under her eyelids. It was over though, at least in one way, that is what she kept telling herself. Tribal’s curse forever rang in her head, however, fueling a desire to run far away.
Fate was in one way on her side. Instead of having to travel all the way to Drouschester to report her success, Sir Thompson had come to her in Yarlene. Apparently the Duke had lost the diet and refused to give in, plunging the civil war into outright rebellion. This dragged the Duke far away from his holdings, and at first word of it, brought anxiety to Elizabeth’s heart, only to be relieved with word from Sir Thompson.
The dawn has just began to crack the sky, and she knew she had to gather what resolve she had remaining, if only to finish this last stretch of her quest. She tucked what money she had left in a shoulder swung leather bag and put her cloak on over it. Strapping her many buckled boots on, she made her way downstairs. She shielded her face from everyone’s view by tossing her hood up, and without as much as a glance, she bypassed the early alcoholics and exited out onto the streets of Yarlene.
Among the abnormally large blocks and buildings of yore, Elizabeth hurried down the streets. She passed carts, horses, entire herds of merchants and people, her mind stinging her with guilt at the sight of each married couple, her thoughts on Canam’s wife. A few people would smile at her as she walked by, and she would attempt to smile back, but she knew it mattered little. The custom was more instinct than politeness, her face obscured by her hood. Elizabeth hurried past countless hawking vendors, the smell of fresh cider nearly making her sick. She cut corners and rode the winding streets, every turn seeing either Canam’s disappointed face, Tribal’s sneer, or the long stare of Feldis in the shadows. Her gut buckled and she hurried her stride.
Eventually she found herself in front of an old stone building, used primarily for dock administration. She quickly pushed through the heavy oaken doors and into the lobby. It was surreal to her, how calm everything was, how orderly everyone was. The lobby held a few sleeping sailors propped up in wooden seats, and a very bored looking dock hag behind a thick stone desk.
Elizabeth approached the desk and withdrew her hood, the hag looking up at her with disgust. Elizabeth flinched at the woman’s stare, she couldn’t possibly know.
“Yes?” The hag’s long raspy and drawn out voice brought Elizabeth back to reality. Elizabeth gulped and slipped her a small paper card, her appointment written on it and stamped by the city bureau, “I have an appointment with the Sir in office four.”
The hag grunted and handed the card back, “Left door, straight to the end.”
Elizabeth nodded a shallow thanks and hurried through the specified door, and cut through the dim stone hallway to the end. Soon she found herself nearly pressed up against a formidable wooden door, strapped with a single iron band across the middle. Painted on it in a Lynnfairish blue was the letter four. Elizabeth felt her stomach flutter as she reached for the knob, forgetting to knock entirely.
Slowly the door creaked open inwards and she stepped into the office. A single tall window lit the room with what morning sun made it this far down in the strange stone city, bouncing off glass reflectors similar to the ones on the ship. She twisted uneasily at the sight of them, but her attention was soon stolen by a cough.
She turned. The room was dominated by a large and very ancient red rug, an ornately carved and burned desk on top of it, with rows of scrolls behind it on shelves, and a single elderly knight before it.
“Sir Thompson,” Elizabeth nodded her head.
Thompson nodded his, “Elizabeth. I’m sorry I couldn’t get a more regal meeting place, but I’m afraid being the personal knight of a rebel doesn’t have much pull in a loyalist city, besides, our friend was more than happy to lend it to me for the day, much to the pain of impatient sailors I’m sure.”
His chuckle slowly faded as he looked into Elizabeth’s eyes, “right,” he straightened his tone, “down to business as it were.”
“[The guy you wanted dead] is dead,” Elizabeth said flatly, her voice only quivering as she continued, “all witnesses are dead.”
“Splendid!” Thompson did not match her somber tone, “I am not going to lie, when William first suggested this task for you, I was very worried it would be a bit too much for a nun.”
“I haven’t been a nun for a long time,” Elizabeth answered, “this was just another task, same as all the others.”
“Right,” Thompson scratched his chin, “I suppose you want to see him now.”
“It is the only reason I’m here,” Elizabeth looked up from the floor, her worried eyes burning into Thompson, “he is here!? Right?”
Thompson held up a hand, “truth be told, William didn’t want to turn him in, give him up. He would go on about how you are much too valuable to lose-”
“Where is he?” Elizabeth screamed, desperation in her voice, and mist spilling out.
Thompson held up both his hands, “William was against it, but I keep my promises miss Elizabeth. He is here, safe, and entirely yours. Although I do suggest for the sake of all three of us, you leave.”
“I intend to,” Elizabeth began looking over her shoulder.
“I mean Lynnfaire,” Thompson replied, “without your nephew, and without being able to hold it over your head, I’m afraid you are now more of a threat to William than a prize. He would surely be done with me too if he knew I was letting him go, so you can imagine how insistent I am that you leave this very day.”
Elizabeth’s heart flipped, “I don’t care, just show me where he is.”
“I need you to promi-”
“Yes, yes!” Elizabeth growled, her threat laced with sadness, the whine of a mother long lost from her children, “just tell me!!”
“You will find him in office twelve,” Thompson said simply.
Elizabeth turned to leave and the knights voice caught her as she was about to step out, “it’s been a couple years, just remember that.”
Elizabeth’s fist clenched and she made her way back into the hall. It has been a couple years, for her Nephew at least. She had the opportunity to watch him grow from a distance, a chance to see him from a cliff top after every task she completed, the promise of him being returned to her always being alluded at but never granted. She almost didn’t believe Thompson would give him to her, she expected nothing to be in office twelve, nothing but the edge of a cliff, her only surviving family member playing unaware in the distant meadows, William’s archers trained on him should she have tried to steal him back. He never knew, and though the arrows never flew, she felt their bodkins spear her heart every time.
She had done many things for him, endured many sins and abuses towards her own self, and served just as many, even before William. She had done it reluctantly, the tasks starting small, her dignity barely being chipped at, until she was exposed, the tasks endless and cruel, her own self being exploited as much as her abilities, all for her nephew, all for everything she had left. The days of the cloister, the days of her big and happy family were long gone. As much as Upper Kamwell was first her hearth and home, it was now a graveyard, lost in a chevauchee, and Drouschester was her prison, William the warden and her nephew the key to her cell.
She remembered the day she lost everything, her family, her faith. And she remembered the day she lost her nephew, and as much as she hoped being reunited with him would have felt like the best day of her life since the start of her misery, she couldn’t help but notice the stone in her stomach. On top of her imprisonment she now found herself cuffed with a new sentence, a new guilt, and a new name: murderer, killer, and while this was not a new title that she reluctantly bore, she now felt the weight of the epitaph added to the end, destroyer of the only two men to show her kindness in many years, a man of family, and a man cut in youth.
Elizabeth stopped in front of office twelve, the numbers painted in the colors of Serenity, the irony not lost on the ex-nun. She slowly opened the door, her eyes were closed, afraid of what she might see. But then she heard it, “Auntie?”
Tears began to well down her cheeks, barely being able to open her eyes to see the blurry image of her nephew before her, the spitting image of her brother when they were kids. Elizabeth lost her strength and buckled to her knees, her nephew rushing up to hug her. She embraced him tightly, “Arthur,” she whispered to him.
“To Vlaanburg then? Maybe Osetina?” Thompson’s elder voice called behind her, and she felt a smile she didn’t know that was on her face fade away, “Osetina,” she lied.
“Your boat leaves in three hours.”
Elizabeth paled, “No boats.”
“Oh don’t worry,” Thompson shook his head, “it has no cargo.”
“Okay,” Elizabeth lied again, “I’ll see that we are ready.”
She stood, a wet stain of tears on her sandy haired nephews tunic, his eyes worried but a soft child’s smile on his face. Elizabeth grabbed his wrist and tugged him behind her, the boy trying to keep pace with Elizabeth, the woman nearly in a jog.
“It was nice doin-” Thompson’s voice faded as she quickly made her way through the doors and out the building, the sun hitting her face. Quietly she looked down at Arthur, just to make sure he was real. Arthur stared back up at her.
Elizabeth smiled, “you must be six by now,” she asked.
“And a half,” Arthur corrected her, causing an unseen pain in her stomach.
“And a half,” Elizabeth parroted, looking out into the crowd of the city, her gaze falling on a stagecoach.
She looked back down at Arthur, “do you want to visit Vlaanburg with Auntie?”
“Yes.”
Lynnfaire (weeks after the Diet of Rownstetaine)
It had been weeks since the diet of Rownstetaine, and much of Lynnfaire had changed. William had parked an impressive amount of chargers and knights near Kamwell during the diet week, giving him a powerful force to raid the old country almost immediately. His charges seemed unstoppable, and rumors circulated quickly about how someone who resembled the Raven Lord was often seen by him in public, coincidentally around the same time as Edith's disappearance.
The first few encounters the newly coronated Abigail had found herself outmaneuvered, and only by the grace of her newfound abilities has she managed to save herself and her army. No matter where she expected William to be, he was always elsewhere, towns laid wasted in his wrath. Only recently had she managed to force his army from the cities and larger towns of Kamwell, bringing him back closer to Jannerton, her support in Upper Kamwell thankful untouched by the war.
For days Abigail had been chasing William's army down, and for days she had been catching up to him only in the nick of time to save the countryside, everywhere else being in flames. She had fought in the front of every battle atop a speckled horse, and in every battle it is said she had grown more confident, cutting swathes of enemies down, and capturing noble knights with her powerful mist.
Confidence grew upon the loyalists as Abigail's generalship improved, and her martial prowess sowed faith in each battle, her words lighting the flame of eagerness to crush the rebellion. Slowly by slowly she had grown in image to her soldiers and constituents, and songs have begun to be written.
As he had promised, Vorren recently crossed the border with his personal army to assist her endeavors. News of their impending arrival had given Abigail even more hope against the odds for the past handful of weeks. With Vorren's army reinforcing her own, William would crumble against the might of both Lynnfairish cavalry and Vlaanburger pike.
But even with the announcement of the Archbishop of Oliria pending arrival, Abigail refused to leave the front lines or slow down her pursuit, intent on giving the Archbishop the comforts and fanfare of his arrival on the front lines. In reality she spared no expense as far as what she could provide on the borders of war, but it was lackluster compared to a palace parade.
The camp guards decorated themselves, and faithful symbols were strewn about the camp, a few knights picked out to parade the Archbishop to the war tent, and extra meat was bought from local hamlets for the single day feast.
The visit was to be brief, but the chance at a friendly talk was well welcomed by the Queen, she herself giving up her comfiest tent chair for the holy man, even be it a simple wicker chair with a sewn on pillow.
The Oliran delegation was a diverse one. First was the Archbishop, Locian of Tacraif. Extremely young for a man of his position, he had graduated from the University of Tacraif and published a series of essays and dissertations which became widely distributed around the Serenist world. With him were members of the Order of Laghad, an order which the Archbishop had once been imprisoned alongside in Freishann. Starkly contrasting with them were a rugged handful of Taisafirin; mercenary warriors which dotted Olira's landscape.
As he waited to enter her tent, Locian stood still, hands pressed against his staff and eyes shut, deep in thought. The mercenaries by his side looked at the young bishop with inquisitive eyes, but knew better than to say anything. The missionaries with them were looking around at the preparations the camp had made, and were quite impressed; not only was it good for a war camp, but what had become of their homeland due to the hurricane made this camp seem like a palatial complex. Suddenly, the Archbishop opened his eyes, and looked to the Lynnfarish knights at the doorway, calmly stating, "I am ready," as they opened the tent, and he entered.
The interior of the tent was plain, the walls striped in typical Lynfairish passion. The Queen had clearly waved off the luxuries some nobles brought with them on campaigns in favor of a light and quick moving tent, the only furnishings being a light wooden desk by a thin mattress, a plain wardrobe, and a small square table with several seats. As the Archbishop entered the area, his eyes quickly adjusted to the brazier light, complimented by what sun soaked through the white stripes of the canvas, his company was barred from entering, leaving him the sole visitor to the Queen's tent.
Inside he quickly spotted Abigail, herself dressed in an off white gambeson, her chain and plate displayed on a stand by the wardrobe. Despite her disarmed appearance she looked as if she were to spring to her armor and ride off to battle at any moment, the sword of Halwende strapped to her hip, the golden sheath replaced with a more pragmatic one of black leather. Despite being bigger than an arming sword, the hand and a half size of Halwende's blade seemed at home on her belt, as if it always belonged.
A glint of a sword hilt directed Locian's eye to the other side of the tent, where Vorren sat atop a trunk. He might not even have noticed him otherwise; the Archon was dressed in black trousers and arming doublet, obscuring him in the tent's shadow. The vampire stood up from his resting place as Locian entered and gave him a nod of respect.
The Archbishop nodded back at the Archon, somewhat disturbed by its presence, before he turned back to Abigail, and gave her a warm smile as he approached. Despite his youthful appearance, his staff was far from mere decoration, as he walked with an obvious limp, dressed in a basic robe and a beard adorning his face. Giving Abigail a deep bow, he began speaking.
"Your majesty," said the clergyman, gripping his staff tightly while his knees shook, his head maintaining the bow.
"An honor to have you here, your holiness," Abigail smiled and waved off his bow, "and you know my Fiancee, First Among Equals Vorren, Archon of Vlaanburg."
"A pleasure," Vorren chimed in.
Struggling a minute to regain his stance, the Archbishop turned back to the Archon, realizing his mistake, and gave a short bow, the first clearly having tired his bones. "My apologies, Archon." Turning his attention back to Abigail, he motioned to the chairs at the table. "Er...may I seat myself, your highness? Though my injuries have long healed, the privations of recent affairs seem to have...revived old wounds." He looked embarrassedly between the two royals, their readiness for combat clearly contrasting with his apparent frailty.
"But of course, your holiness!' Abigail gestured to the seats, she herself waiting for the man to get comfortable before sitting in her own. After a moment she continued, "excuse my forwardness, but what brings the most holy man of Oliria to my battle tent?" Her tone was polite and curious.
"Yes, yes," said Locian as he sat back in the chair, regaining his strength. "Well, I firstly come to Lynnfaire to coordinate the facilitation of aid from the Serene Church in regards to the...recent weather patterns in my homeland. As for my visitation with your excellencies...I have brought correspondence from the High King of Olira. But first, I bear gifts." At this, he reached into his robe, and withdrew a package protected in a thick cloth covering, handing it to Abigail. As she unwrapped it, it revealed itself to be a large leather book, the cover reading
Reflections of Nature in Lynnfarish. As she flipped through it, the borders were covered in intricate drawings of animals, plants, rivers, and other forces of nature, some fauna being common such as rabbits and fish, and some seemingly exotic, likely native to Olira.
"Why, this is lovely," she exclaimed, "I appreciate the gesture. I'm sorry to not have gotten you anything." She added as she soaked in the pictures and words underneath.
The Archbishop smiled at the compliment. "Thank you, it is
Reflections of Nature, the texts which are at the center of my order's doctrine, the authorship of which is partially my own." He scratched his head sheepishly as he added, "I personally penned this copy, the only that exist in your language." Clearing his throat, he then said, "There is another gift I have brought with me...for the Archon of course," he lied, clearly not expecting the vampire to be present. "It is with my retinue, may they present it to...the first among equals?" He asked of the Archon.
"Just
Archon," Vorren chuckled. "You honor me, Your Grace. I'll be honest; I wasn't expecting gifts."
"Of course, Archon. Well this gift is of the generosity of the High King." At this, one of the missionaries entered the tent, carrying in his hands something that was covered by a cloth. Placing it on the table, he revealed it to be a cage containing a strange and exotic creature, with large eyes that were adjusting to the light of the room, flickering triangular ears, a tail and a body clearly meant for climbing with monkey-like arms, and a beautiful spotted coat. "This, in my homeland, is called a
puqa," said the Archbishop, nodding at the missionary to exit.
"A... puqa," Vorren echoed, dancing around the pronunciation. He bent down to the cage to get a better look at the oddity, hanging by the bars. Its eyes were swollen, big and black to take in as much light as they could find in the dark tent.
"It's a nocturnal animal?" he asked.
"Yes, primarily, although this individual has grown somewhat accustomed to the day. Er...they're quite rare now, their furs being of a high value. They eat fruits, nuts, and flesh, though tend to avoid heavier meats such as that of the cow or pig. Raw eggs are a preference of theirs, though shan't be consumed in a high quantity." The puqa stared back at the vampire, its head cocked as it sniffed at Vorren's air.
A delighted smile stretched across Abigail's face, one of her first in quite a while. Her eyes softened and she knelt to admire the creature. She hesitated sticking a finger to touch it's fur, "does the puqa bite?" Her pronunciation was only a hair better than Vorren's.
Locian winced as her hand touched its body, but grew perplexed as the creature nestled its head under her finger, and let out a soft purr. "Er...usually, yes...in fact it's quite odd that it isn't." He laughed. "This one was caught breaking into a chicken coop in Khasibuil. The farmers insisted on killing it and selling its fur, but the local parishioner offered a better price for it alive."
Abigail poked it gently, scritching it, "so I must ask, what has prompted all these gifts?"
Smirking, the archbishop reached into his robe and produced a sealed envelope, handing it to Abigail. "See it as a sort of...congratulation. And an outstretched hand from my country for future relations." The envelope seal was the head of a ram wearing a crown, and had been kept well guarded in its travel.
Abigail straightened up and gingerly took the letter from Locian. She slid a finger under the lip of the envelope, popping the seal open and scanning the contents.
To Queen Abigail d'Montigue of Lynnfaire, Duchess of Kamwell
I would like to congratulate you on your recent victories against the scourge which has divided your father's kingdom, and wish you good luck in your ongoing campaign. It is in my hopes that these words do not act only as an extended hand between two monarchs, but between our two peoples as well. It is because of this that I, HAD ARDRI, KING OF TALNOC AND ALL OLIRA, formally recognize you, ABIGAIL D'MONTIGUE OF LYNNFAIRE, DUCHESS OF KAMWELL, as QUEEN OF ALL LYNNFAIRE. Were it not for the weather and piracy currently taking hold of my nation, my support would go beyond mere letters and gifts.
Below are the signatures of all the Oliran kings, as well as the Archbishop for we stand united in this recognition.
Go in Serenity,
Had Ardri, King of Talnoc and all Olira
Serene Archbishop Locian of Olira Below this were the signatures of all the minor kings of Olira.
Abigail folded the letter and nodded, "I really appreciate the gifts and the gesture, I can only see relations moving forward as always, thank you."
Helios,
Unlucky0013,
Lord Zee,
DracoLunaris,
Frettzo,
Vec,
Eviledd1984,
Kalmar,
ButtsnBalls,
Monkeypants