The Rose of Thorns

A Ribbon come Undone

Steel. She could feel it jut out of her body like an unfleshly extension of her arm. Sometimes when everyone slept Scarlet would slink away to the armories just to hold the cold substance. She pressed it against her cheek or held it inwardly towards her chest in a gesture so similar to how any other girl may have held dolls when she was younger. Daily she flirted with the sharp edges on any weapon. It was the only flirting she did. But wasn't fighting like flirting in a way? It was a dance of skill and a kiss of the offense. A kiss she was actually willing to accept- it was a shame thus far her lips remained untouched. Scarlet never lost. Never.

Even now her latest opponent- a stuffed practice dummy suffered under the magnitude of her cruelty. A vicious slash along its midsection exposed the fine yellow stuffing it was filled with. Better stuffing than entrails, she decided to herself. Another carefully aimed jab pierced through the dummies neck as if it was made of a material as fluid as her movements were. Scarlet imagined its smooth featureless face forming a mouth as if to ask 'what have I done to deserve this?' With the edge of her glaive she gave it a mouth...in the form of another slash to the lower section of the head. Pitying the dummy momentarily she curved up the corners of its gash of a mouth. At least now it looked like it was smiling. To smile in the face of death. Was it bravery or was is bravado? Perhaps it was a bit of both. Panting, her glave rested on the final gash she had made. "Consider that a kiss from my lips to yours my good brave sir" she said short of breath to her thoroughly savaged opponent.

Steel. It was her favorite subsistence- when it was put to good use. Scarlet was sure there was steel in the hairclip that was pressed unceremoniously into her scalp- although the lad who bought it for her insisted it was silver. She wore it only for its purpose and not out affection, as a certain Cyril Alpose probably hoped. If he wanted to win her heart he should have bought her another glaive. Material for a hair clip was not a justified use of steel, even if it kept her hair out of her face. Scarlet would rather her long brown curls meet the foreboding steel blades of scissors but in a moment of compromise she had developed a silent understanding with her mother. The hair stayed and so did the weapons lessons.

In a row of seats facing the training space Emily Cathburough sat morosely in the open air batting away flies with a gloved hand. On her head she wore a particularly feminine hat that hid her eyes with a shadow produced by its rim. Emily loved her eyes. She considered them one of her most valuable assets but today they were hidden for the better. Although they could seldom be described as calm and jovial at this moment in particular her eyes were fearsome and intense in a way similar to that of the rage of a vengeful goddess. The figure beside her, the new weapons boy, did not seem to understand the peril he was in by trying to engage in a conversation. With every piece of commentary he added Emily's jaw clenched like a closing cage holding a loathsome beast- her tongue.

"Excellent form. A holy terror" the boy chirped with every blow of Scarlet's weapon.

Emily watched her daughter's actions with a trace of mortified interest. Where was Scarlet's mind when she held a weapon? Surely it could not at home, with dresses and servants and curls. Her mind seemed somewhere else. Somewhere Emily would rather it not be. Scarlet's mind was on the battlefield. In her ear sounded the monotonous bellow of a war drum. Perhaps she dreamt of foreign blades and foreign throats? The ash and the smoke and the sweat that clung to those victorious. The death that clung to those defeated. Emily lowered the brim of her hat. Her daughter was too pretty to be playing with swords. 'A holy terror' indeed.

"Yes. I believe that's what the dance tutor said" Emily murmured almost acidly. The boy's statement was partly applicable to Scarlet's dancing abilities... all but the 'excellent form' part. Only in skills as crass as combat could being called a 'holy terror' be a compliment. The aura around Emily Cathburough continued to darken into an uncomfortable miasma. The weapons boy still persisted in his commentary.