Blood and Majesty

Chapter One

- The Basilisk Valley
 
 
"He's always hated me," Syra said to no one while unclasping the small golden brackets that held her braid. One by one they were thrown carelessly to her vanity, each landing with a small clatter.
 
"Worm,” she hissed, “Vile, hateful belly crawler. I am NOT for sale!”
 
She stared at her reflection.
 
One girl reading “yes, you are,” in the other’s eyes.
 
“The Lame," she whimpered, "I'm to be pawned off to some drunken brute named: Arik the 'Lame', as if I were nothing more than market cattle."
 
She dabbed at her eyes with the soft inside sleeve of her satin gown and looked back at the girl in the mirror.
 
Yesterday she saw smooth, chocolate locks cascading past her shoulders. Bronzed skin kissed by the sun and pouty lips. Almond shaped eyes the color of molten gold.
 
Not today.
 
Today she saw that face wearing a twisted mask of self pity.
 
The black Kohl that usually rimmed her eyes now inked down her wet cheeks in tiny black rivers.
 
Her eyes flitted to the movement in the back of the room.
 
It was Mal'tys. Her Ebon guard. Her oldest and only true friend.
 
Well, other than Molania. But it was different with Mal'tys. The moment she came into this world he devoted his life to the preservation of her own without question.
 
Day and night.
 
For ten years and nine he has been at her side.
 
He was now standing over the servant girls who were packing Syras’ belongings.
 
He was tall, dark and his keen eyes were watching their every move. Making sure every gem, every necklace, every garment, oil, perfume, keepsake and token was accounted for.
 
She wasn't even sure if he knew of everything she owned or could even truly keep track, but she didn't care.
 
Take it all. That's how she felt. Just take everything. Everything she had ever known and loved had been ripped from her already, what were a few dresses or trinkets?
 
She had spent the afternoon listening to Nym tell the most horrible stories about these flesh-eating monstrosities called: ‘raccoons’ who are rumored to wear masks and prowl the countryside stealing children and food from poor peasant folk and farmers caught unawares in the dead of night.
 
So, what sense did it make to take inventory of things that were only going to be stolen from her by some hideous cannibal creature anyway?
 
Whatever Bal doesn’t take, she thought to herself, the raccoons will claim for themselves. And I will be left with nothing.
 
She slammed her hand onto the vanity. It jolted and a perfume bottle tipped, rolled to the floor and shattered. The scent of Honey Blossom and Jasmine filled the room.
 
 
- Orryn
 
 
"What if she's ugly? Or round." Arik asked while pouring another tankard of mead.
 
"Bollocks," Dingum took a gulp from his own. Wiped his mouth with his forearm. "They don't breed 'em ugly down there."
 
He stood up and began tracing the outline of an imaginary woman in front of him: "they're all curves, eh? Small. Small and fit with perky tits and honeyed skin. Skin like golden bread. Eh? They slither about in these fancy robes that you can see right through. Right through, lad. Bare assed. Swaying their hips this way and that."
 
"Like a serpent?" Arik cut in.
 
Dingum placed his hand on his chest: "Like a woman after mine own heart. Or my fiddle stick. They can take hold of either really."
 
"Then it is settled," Arik lifted his tankard in a mock toast, "you will marry her."
 
"Pfft," Dingum drunkenly waved the thought away, "that old bull of yours would string me up by the balls. You know that."
 
"Fair enough.”
 
Arik lifted his tankard for another drink and caught a glimpse of his reflection on its once polished side.
 
His long blonde hair hanging loose with tiny braids here and there to keep the locks from his face. His thick beard and crystalline blue eyes.

The tankard made his hair look white and his face was mostly a blur. It was the face of a stranger that looked back at him. An aged man. And old man. A ghost. But his eyes, he knew those eyes. His eyes were still his own.
 
"There are ghosts on my cup. I am drunk, Ding." Arik blurted.
 
"Aye," Dingum agreed, "and lucky."
 
"What," Arik was in the motion of standing up but suddenly crashed back down into his seat, "What was that word? Lucky?"
 
"Aye. Lucky. Our Nor ‘man girls are tops. Right? Beautiful, they are. Busty as all heaven and you can get 'em yellow haired, brown haired, red haired, blue eyes and green eyes and da-di-da-di-da but you can't get 'em with those golden eyes, mate. You listenin’? Golden eyes, love. Golden skin. Kissed by the sun their whole lives, they are. Chocolate hair to their knees, son. You listenin’? And you, you lucky bastard, you will have the only one. The only fuckin’ one. And we're all going to hate you for it."
 
Arik looked at his friend as if he were speaking a language he didn't understand: "I do not want this bare assed chocolate snake woman.”
 
Dingum shrugged. “It hardly matters what you want anymore.”
 
“You are supposed to be on my side in this. You are aware of that, yeah?"
 
"I am," Dingum laughed, "And I am..."
 
 
- The Basilisk Valley
 
 
"This is what I will miss most of all." Syra side stepped with her Scutari held firm and it's thin, curved blade ready to strike.
 
The Scutari is a curved sword of sorts. It is like the mating of a farmer’s sickle and a scimitar.
 
The resources to produce steel are scarce in the Basilisk Valley so to compensate regarding their weaponry they began to use skeletal blades.
 
It has the shape of a curved sword, but it is only the spine, edge and tang. The center of the blade, from hilt to point, where the fuller would normally be, was left hollow.
 
The blade, though strong, was not intended for aggressive edge to edge fighting. You didn’t block blows or strike at shields with a Scutari. You slashed.
 
You sliced. You chopped. You pierced. And when the enemy swung at you in return, you moved.