"Yes. What are you doing in my cell?", she sat up and turned to lay her back up against the wall.
""How do you do?' as well", he chuckled, clearly pleased with himself for his surprise approach.
"I have no need of your gods, Eirdren. " she whispered, exasperated, "You may take your message elsewhere."
"Gods?!" he expelled the words from his lips, "Oh! This!" The man examined himself, as if realizing for the first time what he was wearing. "Ah, well, that's not really why I am here, as far as you're concerned anyway. Cedric had requested my services, but no, for you I just wanted to talk." For a moment, he straightened up and lost his air of casual banter, "Not that I am neglecting the work of He, the Keeper of Justice!". He offered a sheepish look that was only exemplified by his ludicrous uniform.
"Cedric," he pointed over across the hall, "He told me who you are, about what had happened on the road to Lithen. I know it may seem straightforward, but do you really know why you are here?"
"I killed that Eirdren lord." she proposed. "What is it to you?", Onion prodded the strange man, hoping to coerce as much information as she could out of the fair man. Curiosity persisted in spite of her resignation to fate.
"Hah! Justice for the slain? " his cynicism cut the air like a knife. His words were spit out harshly, "Hardly. You were used as an excuse for some noblewoman to get away with offing her lord-husband, and in doing so, greatly enrich herself and whoever else she was working with in this plot. Poor Cedric over there", he motioned again to the pale man, "he had no idea either."
"Why am I alive at all?"
"You know, I asked Cedric the same thing. It turns out you were unconscious and buried beneath bodies for practically the entire battle with the Imperial Guard. By the time they had found you and realized that one of the corpses on the field was a living woman, the City Enforcers had arrived to the call. You were not very far out of Eirdred you know."
"What does that mean?", Onion shot back, feeling that none of the man's words addressed her question whatsoever. "One group of guards or two, my death would have been an easy task."
"You don't know this country very well, do you?"
Onion nodded her head to indicate that she did not.
"The chief exports here are catty nobles and the chief import is a lexicon dissembled", through his grimace he snorted out a laugh at his own unique description of the land. "Look, all the infighting that goes on between nobles around here, in Lithen to the north, and Sandor to the south, it isn't isolated incidents of who socially offended whom. There are a lot of power grabs, a lot of players for power. None of this, of course, reaches the Empress, for now anyway, but you have to watch your back for just about any other organization.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Chapter 1 - Part V
From behind the monolithic guard, a young man approached the far end of the hall where Onion and the Archne chef resided. He was diminutive and fair, at least more so than the clunky guard yet was still well built. He was clean cut and with soft hazel eyes, something strange to to see compared both to the golden tinted eyes of the people of the Outer Crest and to the typically blue eyed folk of the east coast of Heilth. He wore a mask of ease and solemnity that was all but ruined by his garb which he wore with an air of unfamiliarity. He was adorned in robes that from Onion's simplistic standards, were reminiscent of a basket of laundry held together by a few well placed ties and sashes. They did not suit the gloom of the dungeon and neither did the man's placid features.
An Eirdren priest perhaps?
The massive and bronzed steel plated guard unlocked the splintered cell door to the pale man and the priest stepped in.
Again, the noise of that unnatural tongue, Onion thought, how vexing. She was not soon to be relieved. The two initiated one long stream of tones and hums and jabbered on like washer women by the river. Onion turned her thoughts inward. Seeking reprieve from the repulsive conversation, she laid down on the cold, hard stone floor and succumbed to the weight of her eyelids. For a moment, she considered the priest's garment, ridiculous in every aspect. What a fool. Soon, however, she was gazing again at the clouds.
Some time later she was awakened to a tickle on her forehead as the hem of the man's robes gently brushed her.
"You are Nü?", The warm sunny day melted away; replaced by the cold stone ceiling of the cell and the upside visage of the blond-haired priest standing over her in his ridiculous outfit. Now, Onion was able to observe the man's outlandish garb up close and had a difficult time taking him seriously. A turquoise, tight, form-fitting long-necked undershirt peeked out of the collar of the over-sized pink robes. A blue sash loosely sat on his waist while a thin white sash crisscrossed at the point between his shoulder blades and around his armpits to cinch the cloth around his arms into some vague version of sleeves. Most startling of all, however, was his accented, but very fluid command of Nüish.
An Eirdren priest perhaps?
The massive and bronzed steel plated guard unlocked the splintered cell door to the pale man and the priest stepped in.
Again, the noise of that unnatural tongue, Onion thought, how vexing. She was not soon to be relieved. The two initiated one long stream of tones and hums and jabbered on like washer women by the river. Onion turned her thoughts inward. Seeking reprieve from the repulsive conversation, she laid down on the cold, hard stone floor and succumbed to the weight of her eyelids. For a moment, she considered the priest's garment, ridiculous in every aspect. What a fool. Soon, however, she was gazing again at the clouds.
Some time later she was awakened to a tickle on her forehead as the hem of the man's robes gently brushed her.
"You are Nü?", The warm sunny day melted away; replaced by the cold stone ceiling of the cell and the upside visage of the blond-haired priest standing over her in his ridiculous outfit. Now, Onion was able to observe the man's outlandish garb up close and had a difficult time taking him seriously. A turquoise, tight, form-fitting long-necked undershirt peeked out of the collar of the over-sized pink robes. A blue sash loosely sat on his waist while a thin white sash crisscrossed at the point between his shoulder blades and around his armpits to cinch the cloth around his arms into some vague version of sleeves. Most startling of all, however, was his accented, but very fluid command of Nüish.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Chapter 1 - Part IV
Onion's curiosity was piqued. There was little to lose by attempting to communicate with the man. If life was already lost to her, perhaps, she mused, it would be worthwhile to learn what she could.
"Lin jak!", Onion yelled and drew the man's attention to herself through the bars of her cell. His sobs ceased entirely, clearly surprised that she would breech the walls of his own prison of personal misery. The pale man raised his index finger to the center of his forehead and pressed the side of the finger over the bridge of his nose, a sign of respect and reverence to Rel.
Pointing to the man she raised her voice in question "Nürish?" Maybe the Spider would be kind to her this day and reward patience with luck. It was not unheard of for mainlanders to interact with the Nü and other peoples of the northern and southern Outer Crest. Perhaps this man might understand something in her homeland's tongue.
"Little word," he responded. The words may have been hampered and jarring to a native speaker, it nonetheless carried the sweet scent of the familiar. In spite of herself she allowed herself this small victory. "Fish-merchant of Nü. Made purchase of Fish-merchant of Nü.
"What is to become of us?" she enunciated very slowly, pointing to herself and the pale man.
"Bad fish. Bad fish dead soon." Trudging through his thick accent and extremely limited vocabulary, Onion was able to learn of her impending fate. That she was to die was of no shock or distress. What was more difficult to ascertain were the questions when and how.
The high courts of Eirdred, Sandor and Lithen all waltzed their own way, but the elaborate show of aesthetic prowess was displayed at an entirely different level in Eirdred. More a dance of preordained steps, murder, betrayal and espionage were all fair plays, so long as the rules were followed. Lady Archne had shown her hand, made her move and was successful. Now her displays of mourning and vengeance for the fallen would wash her hands of their blood. The Lady would pour out manifestations of her loyalty to her dead husband and the theatre of bloodshed would be devoured by an eager audience willing to see someone, anyone, pay. The death of Onion and her pale friend would be the culmination of days of feasting, wailing and shows of bravado and force as hundreds of minor Eirdren lords and ladies from across the province gathered to its capital city.
There is a saying in Eirdred, Rejnev once told Onion. "When there is death, the orchestra begins." This was an event the Eirdren nobility looked forward to. It was during these days that many alliances and plans of betrayal were carefully crafted as power vacuums were sealed.
The man cut off his explanations when the guard came over and roughly blathered some Eirdred gibberish to the pale man. The Archne chef quickly fell to his knees and again pressed his finger to his forehead. The guard left but returned shortly.
Another soul on this web?
"Lin jak!", Onion yelled and drew the man's attention to herself through the bars of her cell. His sobs ceased entirely, clearly surprised that she would breech the walls of his own prison of personal misery. The pale man raised his index finger to the center of his forehead and pressed the side of the finger over the bridge of his nose, a sign of respect and reverence to Rel.
Pointing to the man she raised her voice in question "Nürish?" Maybe the Spider would be kind to her this day and reward patience with luck. It was not unheard of for mainlanders to interact with the Nü and other peoples of the northern and southern Outer Crest. Perhaps this man might understand something in her homeland's tongue.
"Little word," he responded. The words may have been hampered and jarring to a native speaker, it nonetheless carried the sweet scent of the familiar. In spite of herself she allowed herself this small victory. "Fish-merchant of Nü. Made purchase of Fish-merchant of Nü.
"What is to become of us?" she enunciated very slowly, pointing to herself and the pale man.
"Bad fish. Bad fish dead soon." Trudging through his thick accent and extremely limited vocabulary, Onion was able to learn of her impending fate. That she was to die was of no shock or distress. What was more difficult to ascertain were the questions when and how.
The high courts of Eirdred, Sandor and Lithen all waltzed their own way, but the elaborate show of aesthetic prowess was displayed at an entirely different level in Eirdred. More a dance of preordained steps, murder, betrayal and espionage were all fair plays, so long as the rules were followed. Lady Archne had shown her hand, made her move and was successful. Now her displays of mourning and vengeance for the fallen would wash her hands of their blood. The Lady would pour out manifestations of her loyalty to her dead husband and the theatre of bloodshed would be devoured by an eager audience willing to see someone, anyone, pay. The death of Onion and her pale friend would be the culmination of days of feasting, wailing and shows of bravado and force as hundreds of minor Eirdren lords and ladies from across the province gathered to its capital city.
There is a saying in Eirdred, Rejnev once told Onion. "When there is death, the orchestra begins." This was an event the Eirdren nobility looked forward to. It was during these days that many alliances and plans of betrayal were carefully crafted as power vacuums were sealed.
The man cut off his explanations when the guard came over and roughly blathered some Eirdred gibberish to the pale man. The Archne chef quickly fell to his knees and again pressed his finger to his forehead. The guard left but returned shortly.
Another soul on this web?
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Chapter 1 - Part III
That was 3 days ago. Aside from the guards, she had seen not another creature enter this pit. The dungeon was dank and poorly lit, and it was entirely possible that there were other miserable souls in the darkness, quietly suffering, but they did not touch Onion's web.
Her fate was still a mystery. Why was she kept alive? Why did Rejnev take her out of the fight? Why was she not permitted to defend her brothers or at least die trying?
However Onion had the present, not the past, to concern herself with. She had heard stories of the intrigue and plotting of the courts of Eirdred, Lithen and Sandor. The Dance of Thorns it was referred to, yet she never thought her fate was to be ensnared in petty games of the high and mighty. As an easy scapegoat, her fate was sealed. She was an unknown foreigner from a tiny mercenary band of the Outer Crest. There was no one coming for her. No friends or living family on the outside. It was time to make peace with that fact, regardless of how she ended up here.
Her fate was still a mystery. Why was she kept alive? Why did Rejnev take her out of the fight? Why was she not permitted to defend her brothers or at least die trying?
However Onion had the present, not the past, to concern herself with. She had heard stories of the intrigue and plotting of the courts of Eirdred, Lithen and Sandor. The Dance of Thorns it was referred to, yet she never thought her fate was to be ensnared in petty games of the high and mighty. As an easy scapegoat, her fate was sealed. She was an unknown foreigner from a tiny mercenary band of the Outer Crest. There was no one coming for her. No friends or living family on the outside. It was time to make peace with that fact, regardless of how she ended up here.
The short, dark skinned south Outer Crestan contemplated suicide as one might contemplate the purchase of a new tunic or horse. Thoughts of self-destruction were not usually considered, Onion was a girl who valued her own existence higher than anything else, but at the moment it seemed an attractive option. If they did not execute her soon, then it would be a simple, rational preference of no-life over an existence of uninspiring misery and boredom. And if they had plans to kill her yet? Little harm to Onion if her demise came a few days earlier than her captors had intended.
On to the planning stages of self-destruction...
The heavy bolted doors that served as the one exit into the world of the living lumbered open ans with it, a faint sense of color in the relatively fresh air. Her flesh, unaccustomed to breathable air, tingled with pleasure, and Onion felt the strands of her web shake; after 3 days she sensed another soul's presence.
The pale, blond Eirdren seemed to be the most translucent of his race, a concept not easily imagined in the mind of an Outer Crestan. His skin was unnaturally sallow, however, and it took her awhile to recognize the man for who he was.
The Archne chef!
The man quivered with the fear of the unknown. He wore the face of a man not ready to die.
Settled in his cell, he sat on the floor murmuring to himself, "Rel, protect me." To Onion, however, she heard only "leth looth Rel leeth" or at least that is how the Eirdren speech fell upon her ears. It had been only a few weeks since the Clan of the Fir had traveled from Sandor, and she was loathe to learn the jarring native tongue of this land. Besides, most of the time she had spent in the province, and even in other parts of the continent, she remained side by side with her kin.
Only Rejnev,with his fascination of all things Heilthian, had until this point been the sole window and communication line with this foreign world. Now, for the first time, she found herself in need of that intolerable tongue.
She was able to recognize the term "Rel", in the pale man's ramblings. As a child, when her brother, 23 years her senior, would return to Deezhul and relate the tales of his life abroad as a mercenary, he never failed to regale Onion with the tales he had picked up on his travels. Pantheons of gods, mystical beasts that roamed the land and men's hearts were the characters of bedtime stories that rarely ended in an early bedtime.
Rel was a very revered god, in particular to the City of Eirdred, the heart of political intrigue and clandestine activities. Onion and her brothers were not the only victims of noble infighting. The people were often the pawns of schemes crafted by those above, and such pawns had little control over their fates.
To that end, merchants, scholars and beggars alike had Rel, the God of Vengeance and Justice, to whom they could direct their prayers. Placing one's hopes in Rel ultimately was an acknowledgment that suffering was imminent and unavoidable, but Rel offered resolution in another way. One's prayers served to beseech that the thief would soon be robbed, that the murderer would soon be murdered. Rel's protection was the promise of payback, and it was not uncommon for Rel's name to be invoked by those preparing to die.
On to the planning stages of self-destruction...
The heavy bolted doors that served as the one exit into the world of the living lumbered open ans with it, a faint sense of color in the relatively fresh air. Her flesh, unaccustomed to breathable air, tingled with pleasure, and Onion felt the strands of her web shake; after 3 days she sensed another soul's presence.
The pale, blond Eirdren seemed to be the most translucent of his race, a concept not easily imagined in the mind of an Outer Crestan. His skin was unnaturally sallow, however, and it took her awhile to recognize the man for who he was.
The Archne chef!
The man quivered with the fear of the unknown. He wore the face of a man not ready to die.
Settled in his cell, he sat on the floor murmuring to himself, "Rel, protect me." To Onion, however, she heard only "leth looth Rel leeth" or at least that is how the Eirdren speech fell upon her ears. It had been only a few weeks since the Clan of the Fir had traveled from Sandor, and she was loathe to learn the jarring native tongue of this land. Besides, most of the time she had spent in the province, and even in other parts of the continent, she remained side by side with her kin.
Only Rejnev,with his fascination of all things Heilthian, had until this point been the sole window and communication line with this foreign world. Now, for the first time, she found herself in need of that intolerable tongue.
She was able to recognize the term "Rel", in the pale man's ramblings. As a child, when her brother, 23 years her senior, would return to Deezhul and relate the tales of his life abroad as a mercenary, he never failed to regale Onion with the tales he had picked up on his travels. Pantheons of gods, mystical beasts that roamed the land and men's hearts were the characters of bedtime stories that rarely ended in an early bedtime.
Rel was a very revered god, in particular to the City of Eirdred, the heart of political intrigue and clandestine activities. Onion and her brothers were not the only victims of noble infighting. The people were often the pawns of schemes crafted by those above, and such pawns had little control over their fates.
To that end, merchants, scholars and beggars alike had Rel, the God of Vengeance and Justice, to whom they could direct their prayers. Placing one's hopes in Rel ultimately was an acknowledgment that suffering was imminent and unavoidable, but Rel offered resolution in another way. One's prayers served to beseech that the thief would soon be robbed, that the murderer would soon be murdered. Rel's protection was the promise of payback, and it was not uncommon for Rel's name to be invoked by those preparing to die.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Chapter 1 - Part II
But something was amiss and it wasn't long before the mission came crashing down on Onion and her band of brothers. Those that challenged the Clan and their charge were no simple bandits, though they attempted to play the part. Words were hastily exchanged but it was soon clear that the highwaymen would not be content with a toll. They wanted blood.
The Clan of the Fir was a highly seasoned mercenary band and though the highwaymen matched them in number, their aggressors quickly succumbed to the quick and deadly fighting style of the Nü. As the "Spear Head" of the group, Onion let her brothers occupy the bandits in battle while they opened the way for her to make an assassination attempt on the leader. She knew this job well and rarely failed.
Too late, as Onion pulled her blade from the stomach of the enraged bandit leader, did she realize that this was no highwayman. The man's unbound hair was brushed aside as he fell revealing the intricate tattoos on the outside of his ear - a symbol of nobility in Eirdred. And if she still had doubts as to the true identity of the outlaw leader, his family pendant slipped out from under his leather armor as he crashed to the ground. The dead eyes that stared back at her were those of the rash young Lord Archne.
As the skirmish raged on, Onion came to understand that she and her brothers had been cruelly used in politicking between nobles. At this moment, the lives of she and her kin were forfeit for the murder of the lord of House Archne.
Even before she could shout warning to Rejnev, she saw the jaws of the trap begin to close. Someone had been watching from a distance and Onion could do nothing more than watch helplessly as the man disappeared into the horizon. Death would soon follow.
By the time the battle was over, an overwhelming force of the Imperial Guard, the force whose responsibility it was to protect the roads, had arrived on site. With their objectives met, the time for lies were over, but the nobility love the theatre.
"I hereby arrest you, bandits, for the murder of Lord Henri Mathayer Archne, Lord of the House Archne," bellowed the GuardHand General, "But I see already that you resist arrest! I have no choice," the GuardHand glowed poisonously from underneath his helm. "Kill them all!"
Onion brushed the bruise on the back of her head. The last thing she remembered was her brother's hopeless eyes. The last thing she felt was the hilt of his sword on her skull.
She did not wake again until it was nearly dusk and she found herself laying across the butt end of a horse. She smelled of corpses and was covered in blood - blood of the nobleman, blood of her brothers - while the GuardHand appeared spotless. Blissfully, she passed out again.
The Clan of the Fir was a highly seasoned mercenary band and though the highwaymen matched them in number, their aggressors quickly succumbed to the quick and deadly fighting style of the Nü. As the "Spear Head" of the group, Onion let her brothers occupy the bandits in battle while they opened the way for her to make an assassination attempt on the leader. She knew this job well and rarely failed.
Too late, as Onion pulled her blade from the stomach of the enraged bandit leader, did she realize that this was no highwayman. The man's unbound hair was brushed aside as he fell revealing the intricate tattoos on the outside of his ear - a symbol of nobility in Eirdred. And if she still had doubts as to the true identity of the outlaw leader, his family pendant slipped out from under his leather armor as he crashed to the ground. The dead eyes that stared back at her were those of the rash young Lord Archne.
As the skirmish raged on, Onion came to understand that she and her brothers had been cruelly used in politicking between nobles. At this moment, the lives of she and her kin were forfeit for the murder of the lord of House Archne.
Even before she could shout warning to Rejnev, she saw the jaws of the trap begin to close. Someone had been watching from a distance and Onion could do nothing more than watch helplessly as the man disappeared into the horizon. Death would soon follow.
By the time the battle was over, an overwhelming force of the Imperial Guard, the force whose responsibility it was to protect the roads, had arrived on site. With their objectives met, the time for lies were over, but the nobility love the theatre.
"I hereby arrest you, bandits, for the murder of Lord Henri Mathayer Archne, Lord of the House Archne," bellowed the GuardHand General, "But I see already that you resist arrest! I have no choice," the GuardHand glowed poisonously from underneath his helm. "Kill them all!"
Onion brushed the bruise on the back of her head. The last thing she remembered was her brother's hopeless eyes. The last thing she felt was the hilt of his sword on her skull.
She did not wake again until it was nearly dusk and she found herself laying across the butt end of a horse. She smelled of corpses and was covered in blood - blood of the nobleman, blood of her brothers - while the GuardHand appeared spotless. Blissfully, she passed out again.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Chapter 1 - Part I
Here she is, gazing at the clouds. How fast they go. Short, brown
hair bundled in two, her hands clasped conveniently behind her head in
the grass. Short breeches, bare smooth legs fold down the grass in
waves. A loose tunic easily billows in the gentle breeze. Life is
smooth. Life is complete.
But this life is misleading and Onion awakens to reality.
Right.
The smell of the dungeon cell, somehow masked in her peaceful dreams assaults Onion's nose with renewed force. And with the smell, memories of how she got here, so far away from anything human. Guards who eyed her luridly shared more blood with the dragons of myth than they did with humans like herself or the brothers of the clan, or so she felt.
They are all dead now, corpses melting into the soil, serving as dinner for the carrion. They sleep as soundly as she does in this prison.
With this, the Clan of the Fir was no more. Its last mission was far more than the small mercenary band could handle, and it placed Onion and her brothers at the spear tips of two opposing factions of a private war of power and lust. Now, the House of Archne and Lot had found a peace, and Onion's brothers were the silent price of that truce. Her own imprisonment too was the payment for the crimes of the powerful.
One week ago, the Clan of the Fir was approached by Lady Archne with a simple, yet lucrative task - guard and deliver a young chef in her employ to Castle Reinfeld, the gateway post to Lithen Province. The road was sure to be dangerous, but nothing the band of 32 mercenaries couldn't handle.
The job seemed simple enough. Rejnev, her elder brother and leader of the mercenary band eagerly accepted the proposal and saw it as means to keep his struggling business afloat in relatively peaceful times. A blade does not fetch a high price when patricians trade words and wit rather than victory and defeat on the battlefield. There had not been a war amongst the provinces in over five centuries. And three years ago Heilth and the northern Outer Crest tribes had finally come together and signed a treaty that would end the War of the Brazen.
But there will always be highway men to pester merchants and travelers. However, in hindsight, that Lady Archne had paid them so much for the service should have caused suspicion among the ranks of the clan. For the 32 foreign mercenaries, 31 of whom knew little to nothing of the language and the culture of their new home, this seemed a normal, straightforward job.
hair bundled in two, her hands clasped conveniently behind her head in
the grass. Short breeches, bare smooth legs fold down the grass in
waves. A loose tunic easily billows in the gentle breeze. Life is
smooth. Life is complete.
But this life is misleading and Onion awakens to reality.
Right.
The smell of the dungeon cell, somehow masked in her peaceful dreams assaults Onion's nose with renewed force. And with the smell, memories of how she got here, so far away from anything human. Guards who eyed her luridly shared more blood with the dragons of myth than they did with humans like herself or the brothers of the clan, or so she felt.
They are all dead now, corpses melting into the soil, serving as dinner for the carrion. They sleep as soundly as she does in this prison.
With this, the Clan of the Fir was no more. Its last mission was far more than the small mercenary band could handle, and it placed Onion and her brothers at the spear tips of two opposing factions of a private war of power and lust. Now, the House of Archne and Lot had found a peace, and Onion's brothers were the silent price of that truce. Her own imprisonment too was the payment for the crimes of the powerful.
One week ago, the Clan of the Fir was approached by Lady Archne with a simple, yet lucrative task - guard and deliver a young chef in her employ to Castle Reinfeld, the gateway post to Lithen Province. The road was sure to be dangerous, but nothing the band of 32 mercenaries couldn't handle.
The job seemed simple enough. Rejnev, her elder brother and leader of the mercenary band eagerly accepted the proposal and saw it as means to keep his struggling business afloat in relatively peaceful times. A blade does not fetch a high price when patricians trade words and wit rather than victory and defeat on the battlefield. There had not been a war amongst the provinces in over five centuries. And three years ago Heilth and the northern Outer Crest tribes had finally come together and signed a treaty that would end the War of the Brazen.
But there will always be highway men to pester merchants and travelers. However, in hindsight, that Lady Archne had paid them so much for the service should have caused suspicion among the ranks of the clan. For the 32 foreign mercenaries, 31 of whom knew little to nothing of the language and the culture of their new home, this seemed a normal, straightforward job.
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