INHERITANCE: Memorandum Of Scales

THE ELF AND THE EGG

ARYA spurred her palfrey onwards, ignoring the beast's labored breaths and whines. She focused on the dirt road ahead of her, canceling out all sound.

She forgot the cold.

She ignored the leather reigns that cut into her palms.

She banished  the memories of her Elven guard, forgetting their cries when they fell to the Urgals that ambushed them not moments earlier.

She had no time for remorse, no time to turn and give them one last glance.

If she failed here...

Arya's focus snapped back into reality as an arrow zipped by her head, skimming the side of her forehead, right above her eyebrows. Blood trickled and flowed backwards across her cheek.

Faster.

I have to move faster.

Arya whipped her horse onwards with bleak and fleeting determination. Girded by weeping vigor, the Elf princess gripped reigns that by now, felt more like razor wire, fletched with alcohol.

She bit down on her lip, drawing blood as she heard mounted troops gallop behind her.
Even worse were the deep, guttural bellows of Urgals that reached her ears between the beats of a fearful heart.

FASTER.

Kicking her mount in the side with her spurs, Arya whipped reigns with growing desperation.

The horse screeched in protest, but picked up its pace, strong legs of the animal bulging with muscles that were quickly reaching their limit.

She heard, no, felt more arrows being fired at her. But instead of impaling her through her back, they veered off and shot into either side of her, hitting the dirt covered ground with silent thuds.

The enchantments she wore protected her, but for how long? With each defense, she felt herself grow weaker, her grip on the reigns growing less rigid, more slight...her eyesight growing dark around the edges of her vision...

It was then her horse fell.

It came as a surprise.

Arya gasped as the palfrey suddenly stumbled over, sending her and her precious cargo tumbling forward.

Arya was unable to right herself for the fall.

She hit the hard and cold dirt road face first, her nose growing numb in pain as blood spouted from her nostrils and into her grimacing mouth.

The Elf girl had tumbled out of her saddle, and the blue egg under her supervision waited patiently for her, just within reach.

Arya heard the last gasp of her horse as it died. Further back, she heard the hooves of her enemies. Even further, the cries of the Urgals.

She reached for the egg, her arms strained, her body weak...

She was too far away.

Arya clawed at the ground with her other arm, pushing herself forward, blade dragging behind her, slowing cowed momentum down.

I cannot fail.

There is no other option.

Arya's father, Evander. He flashed before her eyes, reverberating in and out, memories of a father she never knew painted by guilt.

Don't stop.

She dug and dug, her fine fingernails bore crevasses of cuts, covered with dirt as they tore themselves on the cruel earth. Her other arm reached for the egg, that precious azure sphere, filled with the hope of the world . . .

"I'll be honest with you, Elf. I hadn't thought you'd go down quite so easily. "

A polite, almost enchanting voice spoke from behind her.

Arya's heart stopped, but not her body. She continued to reach for the egg, dig into the earth, ignoring this new threat.

The voice chuckled. It was light, almost carefree.

"Dear my. Compose yourself.." words riddled with derision ruffled Arya's ears as the voice grew closer.

Arya continued to reach. Her fingertips could nearly feel the cool shell of the egg.

"It's hopeless, mischievous girl."

Arya felt a explosion of pain erupt from her shoulder as the intruder's sharp heels dug into her flesh.

She roared then, balling her hand into a fist while turning over, opening her palm as a torrent of lightning licked from her fingertips.

She could feel the pressure of the heel lessen, and then disappear. She rolled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her shoulder, and shot another wave of magic energy at her enemy, drawing her blade with her other hand.

The man, now that she saw it was such, laughed. 

He merely stepped forward, his movement hindered slightly by Arya's assault.

He had a handsome pale face paired with carmine red hair, long enough to reach his cheeks, while bangs framed a wide forehead and green eyes.

"Such a...meager grasp on the arts. It was wonderfully endearing almost. Watching you.. watching your valor crumble.." He laughed, his face contorted by a sneering smile.

Arya snarled, charged.

Placing both hands on her sword's hilt as she attacked, the dark inquisitor dodged her first blow, blade harmlessly slicing vertically in the air. He looked at her with a dubious expression.
"Surely you can do better?" He said.

Arya hissed, attacked again, switching her grip on her sword while stabbing at the man's stomach. He jumped backwards, blade harmlessly poking his dark coat.

"And I see meagre swordcraft is woefully married to your spell-weaving." The man mocked.

The creature opened pale hands while shadowy whispers susurrated from full lips, his eyes locked on Arya.

His pupils glowed brighter and brighter.

Arya could feel the tint of foulness in his words.

Summoning? She thought, though her question was answered nearly in the next moment.

Within the man's grasp was a sword of fine make, and of grotesque design. Its blade was a shiny ebony, with a serrated edge and a wolf hilt-guard.

The hilt itself was long, enough for nearly four hands, but this man held the sword easily with one. The pommel was fashioned in a sharp, pointed dagger-like protrusion, and Arya could tell it was able to easily cut through leather and flesh.

The man advanced as the first of his mounted soldiers came riding in. He heard them as she saw them. He smiled and turned his head, his hair whipping behind him as he did so.

"Just a moment. I want to enjoy this. It's been a long time since I've killed an Elf."

Arya looked at him with steel eyes, analyzing him closer. He wasn't an Elf clearly, but she could see now that he wasn't fully human. He seemed human at a glance, but there was something about the wispiness of his grin, something ageless and endlessly wicked that she couldn't place.

He was an ancient evil, a pit of violence and despair.

"What are you?" She asked, her sword shaking in her grip.

The pale nocturne flashed her a white yet unassuming smile.

"My name is Durza." He answered as he pounced, swinging his blade overhead and then bringing it down to Arya's waiting defensive stance.

"Your blood screams to me, Elf. Let's make it spill."