A warrior (Mireje), kidnaps a girl (Riasha) from a travelling band of entertainers. Along the way they meet a man-hating woman with an acidic personality (Karai) and a man who started out as their prisoner but ends up swearing his loyalty to Riasha (Erydryn.) At one point they are separated when Riasha is kidnapped by men working for Lyphella, an ally of Mythankin (a local tyrant). Enlisting the aid of a vampire who keeps his motives to himself (Aramie) they manage to save Riasha and get her safely to the rebel camp, at which point an old scribe (Ursen) tells her the destiny they hope she will fulfill.
Posted: Sun May 31, 2015 12:07 am
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Mireje: ( 30s ) A swordsman of somber personality, more known for his skill with a sword than his diplomacy. He has a tendency to be very single minded. He's loyal to his cause, but not to individuals. Basically good deep down, though quite stern and harsh on the outside.
Riasha: ( 18 ) A young girl formerly of a band of travelling entertainers. Sweet an innocent, she's not used to violence or going long distances on foot. She seems weak on the outside, but has unexpected reserves of inner strength. It is believed that she is the descendant of the Unicorn Priests, who were thought to have been killed off a long time ago.
Karai: ( 20's ) A female thief who lives largely in hiding. Bitter and cynical, she claims she is working solely for money, but in truth she wants to see the world change as much as the people she is working for. She's known for having an acidic tongue, especially where men are concerned.
Erdryn: ( 20s ) A mercenary who swears to protect Riasha after his attempt to abduct her is foiled and she has his life spared. He's solemn, but kind, and considers himself a pragmatist. Despite his loyalty to Riasha, he's never fully trusted by most of the rebels.
Lyphela: ( 20s? ) A noblewoman who is a known ally of Mythankin. A sadistic woman who delights in toying with people's lives. She is a known descendant of the Unicorn Priests, but her evil ways have killed the power inside of her.
Pylis: ( 40s ) Leader of the rebellion. Quiet, but demanding, he's a good tactician. He lost his wife and children to Mythankin. Hardened beyond caring for anything besides his cause, he expects a lot out of his followers. Sometimes he lets his desire for revenge get the best of him, and he will occasionally lose his temper.
Aramie: ( 20s? ) His eerie presence, and the reputation of his kind, fool many people. He tries to be good, or at least decent, despite his instincts to kill. Although he denies it, he wants acceptance from others. A loner by necessity, he finds himself helping the rebels. He's bitter and angry at his fate.
Royen: ( 19 ) A fumbling young mage, he has the habit of showing up where he's not wanted. He has good intentions, but his lack of tact makes dealing with others a bit of a feat. Even though he's unselfish and kind, many people do not like him and tend to avoid him.
Ursen: ( 70s ) An old man who studied lore about the Unicorn Priests extensively, he acts as an adviser to Pylis. He's a very wise old man, and he was the one responsible for tracking down Riasha. However, his frail health prevented him from going to fetch her. He's one of the few people that Pylis will not risk.
Mythankin: ( ?? ) Completely autocratic, he does as he wishes and bends for no one. He rules a massive territory that has one of the region's major rivers flowing through it, which gives him a great advantage, both militarily and commercially. He is the tyrant that the rebels are trying to overthrow. He has no care for anyone's life and everyone is expendable to him; it is hard for anyone to stay in his good graces for long.
Firelight flickered across the crowd and the tall fir trees that created a backdrop to the encampment. Many faces appeared red from the cheery flames from the large, central fire. The crowd was fairly large and gathered around the fire for warmth against the chill in the autumn air, hand stretching towards the flames that licked upwards against the night sky. The time of year, combined with the fire, made the air smell good, and this was enhanced by the hot pots of spiced cider that hung over smaller cooking fires along the perimeter of the group. Smiles were common amongst the crowd and they often shouted and cheered. Only the glittering stars far overhead seemed cold, aloof, and serene compared to the lively, animated crowd and the welcoming fire.
On the far side of the fire was a raised platform. Surrounding the platform was a collection of musicians, all of them still for the time being except the fiddlers. Fast paced music poured from beneath their skillful fingers and the crowd clapped their hands in time with the beat. Even the trees, swaying under the influence of a slight breeze, seemed to keep time with the fiddles.
Only one face among the crowd showed signs that he wasn’t enjoying himself Mireje looked upon the rest of the crowd with disdain. As he watched everything around him, his face wore no smile and showed no trace of humor. He was a somber man who lived by his sword; he had no use for the frivolous Nomads or those people entertained by them. Slowly he sipped his cider, the only thing he had allowed himself to purchase from these vagabonds. Grudgingly he admitted to himself that the cider was fairly good. As for the music, he was deaf to its charms and was ignorant as to the talent of the musicians.
However, he did notice when the music halted and he looked around for what it might mean. Within moments the crowd parted to make way for a troop of dancing women. The cheers from the crowd doubled in intensity and as the musicians started their next song, they had to fight to stay above the din. Bright colors reflected the fire as the dancers stepped up on the platform and took their starting bows. When the music cued them in, they started their dance. Reds, oranges, yellows, greens, and blues swirled in an intricate set of patters as the girls danced, showing off their rounded forms. Bawdy comments rose from the crowd, again threatening to drown out the music.
Mireje snorted in derision; he saw the spectators as low and common, wasting their time on such entertainments. The dancing woman didn’t even register an interest in him. The only reason he even watched is because he had been sent here to find a girl that was rumored to be with these Nomads. He was pretty sure he had been chosen because he wouldn’t be distracted by the pretty women and the antics they used to keep the men’s attention. Finally the dance stopped. Coins showered the girls and their musicians. Flushed with excitement and exertion, the girls bent down to collect their pay, allowing the spectators ample opportunity to look down the tops of their blouses. Cries of encore rose from the crowd, but went unheeded. Most of the dancers settled in amongst their fellow Nomads, but a few of them, preferring the spectators, sat with those men who appeared to throw the most coinage.
Once again the crowd parted way. This time it was a lone, cloaked figure that walked down the aisle at a slow pace. A soft strumming of the fiddles silenced the crowd. Mireje watched the figure in wonder; he was curious to see who commanded such a hush from the crowd. But he could discern nothing beyond the cloak the figure wore. As the figure neared the fire, one of the Nomads threw a couple handfuls of powder on the fire. It changed into a pale blue flame, which altered the entire look and feel to the gathering. Slowly the figure approached the platform and moved onto the center of it. It stood there, hesitantly, almost wavering in place. Then a high note from a set of panpipes pierced the hushed atmosphere. As if compelled by the note, the figure threw off the cloak, drawing exclamations of awe from the crowd.
The mysterious figure was a girl in her late teens. She was dressed in a long, white dress with billowing, transparent sleeves that gathered in a cuff at each wrist. Beneath the sheer material her smooth, slender, pale arms could be seen. She had long, black hair braided halfway down her back, and let loose until her waist. A circlet of white roses crowned her head. The bodice of her dress was laced tightly with silvery material and helped give a boost to her pale breasts that looked faintly blue in the strange light of the fire. In each of her hands she held streamers of white, silver, and gold ribbons. Mireje took all this in at a glance, and then promptly ignored it. It was the girl’s face that held the most interest for him. Like the rest of her skin, her face was pale with a faint touch of pink in the cheeks and lips. The lips themselves were small, and trembled slightly. The shape of the face was oval and the features finely chiseled. The eyes were large and glinted darkly in the pale face; he couldn’t tell if they were actually blue or if it was another trick of the firelight. Alone this wouldn’t have been noteworthy, but the Nomads were swarthy, their hair a pale, faded brown and occasionally blonde. Their eyes were a light blue or pale green. Amongst them this girl stood out, and Mireje was sure she was the one he was sent here to find. But his thoughts were interrupted. Soft music filled the air. The fiddlers played a light, strumming tune, but the dynamic parts of the song were all done by a single man playing the panpipes. From behind her a sweet smelling mist began to roll in, and when this happened, the girl began to dance. Although she showed off the same amount of skin as the other women had, no one uttered a single bawdy comment. In fact, the crowd was silent, as if in a trance. Even the girl had a rather neutral expression, as though she wasn’t entirely there.
The music and the dance combined to tell a story of the heart’s secret desires, those wishes that are kept hidden from the world, and often the person holding the thoughts. It was a story of yearning, of reaching for the unachievable. The girl danced with great precision and though she was dancing for the crowd, she seemed almost unaware of them. Although Mireje hated to admit it, he told himself that the girl was quite good. Her execution was flawless, and he fought hard not to be drawn into the drama that the dance was producing. After all, he had no time to think of unobtainable dreams; he was on a mission.
The last few notes faded away into the darkness. Slowly the fire regained its cheery, yellow and red glow. The lone dancing girl seemed startled for a moment, her cheeks starting to flush. Then she took a bow and was showered with coins. Even Mireje, before he could stop himself, had thrown in a few silver coins. Silently the girl gathered her earnings. Then she moved to the side of the man who had played the panpipes, who put an arm around her, almost possessively.
Upbeat music from earlier was being played again and the dancing women were back on their feet. This time the crowd was invited to dance, and many of them took the opportunity. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in enthusiasm, and soon the clearing was full of moving bodies. Mireje, expectedly, stayed where he was, his eyes on the lone dancer. Now that she was no longer dancing, there was something timid and nervous about both her expression and her movements. He watched her whisper a few words to the player of the panpipes and then left the large circle of firelight, disappearing into the night beyond. Mireje was tempted to follow her, but then decided against it. Instead he walked over to the panpipes player.
“Are you enjoying yourself, sir?” he asked once he saw Mireje approach.
“Well enough,” replied Mireje in a clipped tone.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Actually, yes, you can. Who was that last dancer, the one in the white dress.”
“That is Star.”
“Is that her real name?” It seemed to appropriate, too convenient for Mireje to believe. Besides, such a name belonged to the Nomads; and it was obvious she was not from their stock.
“No, but it’s what visitors know her as,” said the musician, matching Mireje’s earlier clipped tone. Something in the expression of the Nomad’s face gave Mireje the feeling that further questioning would be useless. While he was more than adequate at using a sword, he couldn’t take on the whole camp; their sheer numbers would eventually overwhelm him. And he might lose any chance of achieving his goal.
“Thanks,” he rumbled, passing the Nomad a coin. The man smiled and flipped the coin over his knuckles a few times before pocketing it. Mireje returned to his seat by the fire.
“I heard you asking about my sister,” said a young voice at his elbow a few moments later. Mireje looked down to see a young boy of maybe ten years standing beside him. The boy had a mop of unruly blonde hair and eyes that were so pale they looked uncanny.
“I doubt she’s your sister; you look nothing alike,” retorted Mireje before he thought better of it. With all his training he should have heard the boy approach. That a mere youth could sneak up on him irritated Mireje.
“Of course she’s not really my sister, but my mother took her in, so we’re as good as family. I’ve always known her as my sister.”
“Now that that’s out of the way, yes, I did ask about your sister. What does that matter to you?”
“Do you think she’s good?”
“She was good enough, though I don’t see how my opinion will make any difference.”
“Lots of men that come here ask about her, but you don’t seem like them,” the boy observed, shrugging his shoulder. He then turned a couple of cartwheels as though he couldn’t sit still any longer.
“How am I different?”
“You didn’t seem nasty about it,” returned the boy, his face reddening slightly. Mireje could easily imagine the kinds of things the men must have said about her, or even to her.
“Where does your sister come from?”
“I don’t know; she was already with us when I was born. Father once said that she came to us from a far away land, but she was too young to remember it. Mother thinks that she was born nearby, but that her parents came from far away. I think Star knows where she’s from and just doesn’t want to talk about it,” said the boy, twiddling his thumbs. This information added up with what Mireje was told about the girl he was searching for, and while it didn’t prove he was right, it didn’t remove the possibility either. He wished that he had followed her in the first place before revealing his interest in her.
“Could you take me to see her?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll give you a silver coin for it.”
“Ummm...”
“Two.”
“Hmmmm...”
“Five.”
“Okay,” said the boy, finally breaking. Mireje passed him the agreed five coins. Whistling softly to himself, the boy pocketed the money and skipped into the darkness beyond the reach of the fire’s bright glow. His yellow mop of hair bobbing up and down made it easy for Mireje to track him through the darkness. Soon Mireje could see the dim outline of the wagons that the Nomads lived in as they traveled. Even in the concealing darkness he could tell they were painted in bright, gaudy colors. To him this just seemed another symptom of their loud and careless ways.
The boy stepped up to one near the end. This particular wagon was colored in white and black alternating, uneven stripes; it was one of the tamer looking homes. The boy knocked three times on the door, waiting a few moments, then knocked again five more times. For a moment there was silence, then Mireje heard someone stirring within. Seconds later, the door slowly opened. ‘Star’ smiled slightly at the sight of her brother, but that smile quickly fell as she saw he was not alone. Her face flushed nervously and she pulled a black shawl over the top of her bodice in a show of modesty.
“Who is this?” she asks, her eyes down cast and her lips trembling. One of her hands fidgeted with the tassels on the end of her shawl.
“I dunno; he asked to see you.”
“How much did he pay you, Cristani?” asked ‘Star’, her tone reproachful. Cristani’s face reddened with shame.
“Five silver pieces,” he mumbled, idly drawing lines in the dirt with his left foot. A barely perceptible sigh came from ‘Star’. Then, fir the forst time, she turned to face Mireje directly.
“Excuse me for not being more hospitable; won’t you come in?” she invited, nervousness shining through the mask of hospitality. Mireje entered and permitted himself a glance around the inside of the wagon. At the far end there were four beds, each neatly made. That end of the wagon had many shelves with chests underneath for storage. Closer to the front, an assortment of cooking utensils and other tools hung from hooks on the walls, and there were a few stools sitting up to a wooden counter. Mireje could see the hinges where it could be folded back to make more room if needed. The floor of the entire wagon was tidy.
Cristani scrambled inside and flung himself on one of the beds. From under the pillow he produced a large apple and started gnawing on it vigorously. The sound of the crunching annoyed Mireje, but he said nothing. Common sense told him it would be unwise to start trouble with the boy in his own camp, especially when he wanted to talk to his older sister.
“What is it you want, sir?” asked ‘Star’ with a quaver in her voice.
“Have you heard of the Unicorn Priests?” asked Mireje, not being one for small talk. It was in his nature to get straight to the point.
“A little. My mother told me tales of people, who had the power to call upon the unicorns for aid, but the unicorns vanished years ago and the priests were killed, if they had ever existed at all. What do such stories have to do with me?”
“We have reason to believe that someone from the line of the priests still survives,” answered Mireje.
“You can’t mean me!” protested ‘Star’, pulling her shawl even more tightly around her shoulders, as though it could ward off the implications of such a statement.
“I do mean you. You’re the only one who fits the description. I’ve been sent to look for you, and now that I’ve found you, I must take you with me.”
“No.” It didn’t sound like a very defiant statement; ‘Star’ sounded more fearful than firm.
“I must, and if you will not come with me willingly, then I will have to bring you by force.” Mireje narrowed his eyes dangerously; he was known for having an intimidating glare, and the girl hardly seemed like the type to stand up against his tactics. Perhaps if they had known the kind of girl ‘Star’ would be, they would have sent someone with more diplomacy, but no one had expected someone who entertained for a living to be so meek.
“You can’t take her!” exclaimed Cristani, springing from his place on the bed and bounding across the wagon to stand in front of his sister. If Mireje had any humor, he would have seen how ridiculous the sight of the scrawny Nomad attempting to save the girl from the much larger swordsman was. Since he had next to no humor, Mireje was simply annoyed.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to stop me,” he stated, reaching for his sword, which was slung in a scabbard on his back. The boy’s eyes widened, but he only moved closer to his sister.
“Cristani, don’t anger him,” ‘Star’ interjected, half-pleading, half-warning. Despite the fact that he had brought the man here, she didn’t want to see anything happen to her brother.
“Listen to her; I don’t want to have to hurt you,” Mireje said. And as much as he was a man of the sword, he had no desire to turn his sword on a child, even if that child was in his way.
“It’s alright; I’ll go with him. Just don’t do anything to get hurt.” The young woman tried to step in front of her little brother and put herself between him and the swordsman.
“No!” shouted Cristani, making a foolish lunge towards Mireje. Seeing only that he was being attacked and not taking into consideration the fact that the boy was small and unarmed, Mireje acted on his instincts. Bringing a fist down on the back of the boy’s head, he rendered Cristani unconscious; the boy slumped to the floor. Then, before ‘Star’ had a chance to scream and alert the camp, Mireje knocked her out too.
