Wyvern Tails and Phoenix Feathers

The Cortège, Chapter 2 - Annette

Annette was only fifteen when she first discovered the almost magical versatility of wine. At a party, a glass of wine had the power to make her feel more comfortable, to lower her inhibitions, to provide an excuse for informality. In moments of passion, it could enhance sensation, in moments of pain, it could numb, in grief, it could help her forget, and in stress, it could calm.

It was for this reason she was grateful that, despite being a prisoner in his tower, Magelord Daronis Setti provided her with all the wine she could drink. Wine was the only thing that kept her sane and calm after a Red Wyvern cultist, in the form of a great bird, abducted her from her bed in The Blue Keep. When Daronis Setti took her blood for his experiments, a glass of wine was there to comfort her. When he took her cousin, the Marquess Renard away, she poured herself another glass.

She heard his screams as he was carried down the stairs. She followed the sound of his protests. The door opened and he was dragged outside. Her uncanny curiosity bade her to view from the window, though a chill ran continuously down her spine and her whole body trembled.

In a clearing beside the vineyards sat an object she had only read about. But there was no mistaking the horrific invention for torturous death known as the brazen bull. It was a hollow iron bull which could fit a victim in its belly. A fire would be lit beneath it to cook the poor soul alive. Renard, it appeared, would be that soul.

His eyes were wet and red with anger as the Magelord's assistants brought him to the bull.

"Please!" he cried. "I have no magic! I'm not the Red Falcon! Please!"

He spoke the truth, as far as Annette knew; she was the mage, not Renard. She had an innate connection with the earth; plants answered to her call. It was a fact she had worked hard to conceal from Daronis Setti since her arrival. If he knew, it might have been her being dragged to a torturous death in Renard's place. She had allowed them to take her cousin. Her choice was made in terror. Her choice was made in cowardice.

The man called Horus opened the hatch in the belly of the bull. His lover, Fernon forced Renard inside. Fernon was tall and muscular. Renard was lithe and diminutive. He couldn't put up much of a fight. Horus closed the hatch. Renard's screams took on a muffled, distorted tone, like the bellows of some injured animal. Horus and Renard looked relieved, as if in the moment Renard was stowed away, he had disappeared and no atrocity was being committed. Annette could not pretend the cries weren't human. She averted her gaze.

There was another observer in the vineyard, a little girl with dark hair. She couldn't have been older than seven. Mischief and excitement was alive on her face. What was she doing there? Was this normal for her? Some said the citizens of Wyvern Rock were a different breed, savage and terrible. Perhaps they were right.

Horus had a natural gift for pyromana and with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, the tinder beneath the brazen bull was ignited. Renard's screams intensified. Annette convinced herself there was nothing she could do. She could only worry about her own survival. There was no room in her mind to absorb the horror, no space for guilt. She was resolved to hold herself together at any cost.

And so, beyond the grim scene, beyond the echoing nightmare, she stared deep into the Firgladen Forest. She focused on the beauty of a distant tree. She listened to the wind rustling through the leaves. The plants spoke to her in whispering incoherent melodies as they had since she was an adolescent.

She focused so intently to drown out the morbid slaughter, that the tree began to grow. The flooding release of unhoned magic made her pale and breathless. Sweat beaded on her brow. The tree towered up into clouds quickly with spindly branches that lacked the structure to support its own weight. At last, as Renard's moans burned away, the distant tree fell, carving a wound into the forest floor. Annette's glass, too, slipped through her quaking fingers. A splatter of wine and jagged shards settled around her dirty bare feet.