Wattys 2022 Shortlist Nominee
Inspired by the delightful Curse of Strahd campaign!
Darius Starbán, disgraced King of Starkovia, joins up with Demon-Spawn Inquisitor Urien, his ex-boyfriend and wealthy aristocrat Yra, and new friend Astrid as they tr...
I dug the toe of my shoe into the dirt because I didn't have anywhere else to look. I could feel all three sets of eyes on me, and if I looked up, I was bound to make eye contact with somebody, and that wasn't going to happen. Someone stabbed the tip of a stick into the fire, causing a log to break and fall, sending a shower of embers and noise into the night air. I shoved my hands beneath my legs to give them something to do, the hard, sharp bark of the log I rested on poking into my thin leather gloves, and I rocked back and forth.
"So," Urien's voice echoed across the field. "Do you have something to say for yourself?"
My eyes flicked upward toward his voice and met the gazes of everyone else. Yra leaned casually against a rock, using his bedroll as a cushion for his head. His usual expression graced his face, his eyes drooped in apathy and his mouth softly downturned as if he were thinking about something inconsequential. His blond hair fell in ringlets around his face, tied back by a silk ribbon, and he polished a rapier that glimmered in the firelight.
Astrid sat on her bedroll cross-legged on the ground, stretching and rubbing her eyes. It was far past her bedtime, and her doll-like eyes fluttered shut as she attempted to stay awake. Though a grown woman herself – barely nineteen – she maintained a level of innocence that most Starkovians lost, and I admired that about her. She hugged a stuffed bear to her chest and looked as though she would fall asleep sitting up, given the chance. She idly twirled a long fiery curl, thin and coiled around her finger, her umber, freckled skin soaking up the golden light.
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"I-I..." I stammered, like a child being scolded. I was four hundred years old, for Fandr's sake. How was it that I could be intimidated? "I went for a walk. That's all."
"How many times do I have to make it clear that the Starkovian commoners do not like you?" Urien demanded. He sat directly across from me, the campfire glow glinting off the horns that swept back across the top of his head. He had removed his hood, now out of the public eye. He sat leaned forward, fingers laced, waiting for an explanation.
The inquisitor was a Cambion, the result of a Human having relations with true hell spawn, Demons, and with his hood pulled back the trace of tattoos danced across his collarbone. The tattoos had been enchanted at some point in Urien's life to hold objects. I did not know the extent of this enchantment, but he had pulled several things from them: cloaks, blades, even loot from kills. He was like a giant walking, talking rucksack. It came in handy. His face looked Human, but the icy color of his skin and the horns atop his head gave away his heritage.
"I figured no one would notice me."
"They know your face, Darius. Your face is on the back of their money. You think they won't recognize you?"
"I didn't expect them to be so vigilant. I haven't been down here in, like, what? A hundred and fifty years. I didn't know they'd have guards posted all over the woods."
"I told you to stay close to me, keep to the camp, and keep your head down while we dig up the vampire mess you made. The next time you decide to wander off, I won't be coming to save you. Now, I'm going back to bed. We need to be up bright and early so we can figure out our next move."
