The Vixen Queen

Prologue

The greatest weapon of control is the chase.

Always make them chase, and always give a half-reward.

May it become a cycle, a wheel which ever turns,

where they chase and chase and chase after you,

and never catch up.

- Grimoires of The Dark Moon

The 343rd Year of The Nordur Imperium

The 2nd Year of The Reign of King Ragnar XII

4A Y343

BAEDSTEN

Her eyes were familiar. A deep, intense violet, that warped his vision each time he looked upon them, pulling reality around him into a tunnel, with all else but her...blurred and irrelevant. There was magic in them, he was sure of it. Magic was easy to spot, but not always easy to identify, depending on the source. Comparatively speaking, whatever this woman was packing was an enigma wrapped in a mystery, with a giant sign saying, 'Hey! I'm someone you might know from somewhere, and I might practice a magic that you've got a particular weak spot for.' He shuddered, racked by an icy chill that was egged on by the nails she traced along his calf. I might be in danger with this one, he laughed to himself and took a long draw of his pipe, and exhaled. This woman...

She lay across him, her thick black hair falling like a dark blanket over his legs and onto the earthen colored bedding below, her rosy pink lips pulled into a grin. Ganzig found himself sucked in again, like his head was being shoved in an ice cold bucket of water filled with apples — a cruel joke among the Chinids. A classic. Everyone knows you can't fall for that. But this is Baedsten. Not Chinid. And you...are more known to me than either. So familiar...what secrets are you hiding?

With significant effort, he managed to break free of her gaze once again. The woman snickered, a click of her tongue. The chill intensified. His fingers clenched the wooden pipe tighter as he eyed her, suspicious but amused.

Ganzig took another long draw from the pipe, creating a saturated orange glow within the bowl. The spiced apple flavor of the tobacco washed across his tongue. Chinid weed. Good for dulling the senses...amongst other things. I mean, I can't speak for everyone else, but I've yet to find a more potent aphrodisiac. Also a plus, it calms the nerves. Ugh, I can't even think about that yet.

He blew out, suddenly noticing the warped sense of time within the room, how it felt isolated from every other thread within The Weavers' hands, from every thought within their infinitely omniscient minds. Is that because of her? Or is it the trauma about to unfold for everyone in this kingdom once it's reported that Asher and his men are on their way across The Rissard Sea? Which, of course, it will be reported. Obviously. Only a fool wouldn't take a chance like this, and Asher's no fool — Scurra's delight, I think that's enough of the pipe for now. Eh, one more draw, call it a good luck charm.

He sucked in, the warmth of the smoke batting the effects of the woman's charms. Mysterious, crafty fingers of spiritual rapture pined for him, reaching their strong but bony tendrils in his direction, hoping to get a grip on his soul. He had felt it many times before in his millennia long existence. It was an unmistakable beckoning, like the bright aura of a flame calling out to moths as they fly by, ever so close to danger, ever so close to pleasure. A thin current of red began to swirl about her as her fingers moved, as if they were dispensers of scarlet ribbons of the finest satin.

The smoke blew out into the stale air of his still, small home, coating the immediate area in a thick white haze reminiscent of a morning fog. He raised his own fingers and played with it, smirking at the thought that his fingers were dispensing their own ribbons, white to juxtapose the red. He cast a moving image on it, depicting the old Karhai legend of the binding of Tjilbrud — a history he longed to repeat, to slay that savage beast. The scene dissipated with the smoke and Enebish was left in the vulnerable state of limbo between sadness, grief, and recklessness as he looked around his room.