Lady Sabine
Member
Through the windows of the carriage, the forests had given way to scrub-covered hills almost two hours ago, grey and brown in the faint light of the winter sun still hidden behind corpulent clouds that threatened snow. There was the smell of it on the breeze and the air felt thick with cold, the entire world holding its breath. The perfect weather, Desmosia supposed, for a meeting like this. The entire world held its breath for what would follow.
They had been fighting just a year ago, soldiers clashing at the border over some dispute about rights to a river or something equally petty. That was the way it had always been- the separate societies could never interact, never touch, without conflict. At two-and-twenty Desmosia had never seen a Dragon, never met the reason so many thousands had died. But her father, five-and-fifty, had met them as a youth. Seven-and-thirty years now they had been gone, all at once, leaving behind their temples and their priests and a legacy of hate. To her, it seemed a little silly. How had eight creatures managed to convince the entire world to fight one another, even nearly four decades after they disappeared? And why? The priests had never much appreciated her questions, but that was nothing new.
Few ever appreciated her questions. A princess should be seen and not heard, or so they told her. She ought to hold her tongue and her appetite both, become the slender little quiet thing that her mother had been. Emalda, by almost all accounts, had been the perfect queen. Wasp-waisted and soft-spoken, she had stood loyally by her husband Khafer's side, serving him well and quietly and daintily and gracefully and everything that her daughter was not. But she had died too, died on the birthing bed after seven miscarriages, died bringing their only living child into the world. Died, and left Desmosia the only heir. Her father never remarried, and the court never shut up about it.
Dessa supposed she was hardly the sole heir they were probably hoping for. Raised more a son than a daughter, Khafer had named her his heir from the first, a prince as much as a princess. The priests shouted about blasphemy, the nobles tutted the loss of traditions, but in the end everyone held their tongues, for surely her husband would one day assume the crown instead. It had never been their plan, but the hope was enough to keep every family with an eligible young man in line.
This betrothal would make them some enemies, she didn't doubt. But she was not well-loved already. Five foot eight and half again the weight that would have been fashionable for her height, Desmosia would never pass for dainty. The kindest called her thick, the less kind... well, she had names for them as well, for while her body was round and soft, her mind was sharp and quick. Perhaps she would never have a tiny waist, no even with a corset, but she had honed her mind with the finest tutors the kingdom had to offer. She could rattle off all fifteen kings in the Dahai Dynasty and their achievements, spoke the Common tongue and the Earthen language fluently, and was even passable in the Old Tongue favored by the priests and dragons. She could calculate taxes and had committed most of the laws of the land to memory, had beautiful handwriting and was well-read- her mind, or so she thought, was the equal of any prince in the nation's history. That was her weapon. Knights had swords, archers had bows, but princesses... they only had their minds.
As the carriage pulled up in front of the ruined fort where the meeting had been arranged and she stepped down, Desmosia wondered what her betrothed would think of her. Brown hair, straight and thick and darker than usual under the grey light, fell unfettered down to her hips, held in place by a simple gold circlet worked in the shape of curling vines. There was a necklace to match, but she wore neither rings nor earrings, and her garb, while well-made, was simple and unadorned, deep green and brown and cut to emphasize hips and bust. Fashionably thin she was not, but Emalda's slender hips had ended as a curse more than a blessing- not a thing anyone would ever say of her daughter.
And, hopefully, no one would ever say she was coward. Wrapping her fur-lined cloak a bit tighter around herself, Desmosia lifted her chin and lead her party through the ruins. She brought only seven people with her, both as a sign of trust and blessing. Eight was a sacred number, though she would have truly preferred the protection of more men. Only two of her party were knights; four were nobles and one was a scholar of some distinction, Auriel of Watersbreak. His quill didn't strike her as particularly useful in this situation, and she wondered not for the first time why she had chosen him instead of someone more... formidable.
Too late now. Too late to do anything except arrange her features in the most regal expression she could manage and step through the doors into the inner sanctum. An attempt was made to light the torches, but the broken walls let in too much gusting wind and their tinderboxes could not get a proper spark going. With only two flickering sources of light prepared they heard the Fire delegation arrive- they would probably think them fools, Desmosia reflected as one of the torches blew out, but not half so foolish as she felt. Borderlands were all well and good for showing mutual trust, but they lacked for creature comforts.
"Greetings," She addresed the party as they arrived, stepping forward with her hands outstretched, first finger touching her thumbs in a gesture of welcome. "I bid you peace and good tidings."
They had been fighting just a year ago, soldiers clashing at the border over some dispute about rights to a river or something equally petty. That was the way it had always been- the separate societies could never interact, never touch, without conflict. At two-and-twenty Desmosia had never seen a Dragon, never met the reason so many thousands had died. But her father, five-and-fifty, had met them as a youth. Seven-and-thirty years now they had been gone, all at once, leaving behind their temples and their priests and a legacy of hate. To her, it seemed a little silly. How had eight creatures managed to convince the entire world to fight one another, even nearly four decades after they disappeared? And why? The priests had never much appreciated her questions, but that was nothing new.
Few ever appreciated her questions. A princess should be seen and not heard, or so they told her. She ought to hold her tongue and her appetite both, become the slender little quiet thing that her mother had been. Emalda, by almost all accounts, had been the perfect queen. Wasp-waisted and soft-spoken, she had stood loyally by her husband Khafer's side, serving him well and quietly and daintily and gracefully and everything that her daughter was not. But she had died too, died on the birthing bed after seven miscarriages, died bringing their only living child into the world. Died, and left Desmosia the only heir. Her father never remarried, and the court never shut up about it.
Dessa supposed she was hardly the sole heir they were probably hoping for. Raised more a son than a daughter, Khafer had named her his heir from the first, a prince as much as a princess. The priests shouted about blasphemy, the nobles tutted the loss of traditions, but in the end everyone held their tongues, for surely her husband would one day assume the crown instead. It had never been their plan, but the hope was enough to keep every family with an eligible young man in line.
This betrothal would make them some enemies, she didn't doubt. But she was not well-loved already. Five foot eight and half again the weight that would have been fashionable for her height, Desmosia would never pass for dainty. The kindest called her thick, the less kind... well, she had names for them as well, for while her body was round and soft, her mind was sharp and quick. Perhaps she would never have a tiny waist, no even with a corset, but she had honed her mind with the finest tutors the kingdom had to offer. She could rattle off all fifteen kings in the Dahai Dynasty and their achievements, spoke the Common tongue and the Earthen language fluently, and was even passable in the Old Tongue favored by the priests and dragons. She could calculate taxes and had committed most of the laws of the land to memory, had beautiful handwriting and was well-read- her mind, or so she thought, was the equal of any prince in the nation's history. That was her weapon. Knights had swords, archers had bows, but princesses... they only had their minds.
As the carriage pulled up in front of the ruined fort where the meeting had been arranged and she stepped down, Desmosia wondered what her betrothed would think of her. Brown hair, straight and thick and darker than usual under the grey light, fell unfettered down to her hips, held in place by a simple gold circlet worked in the shape of curling vines. There was a necklace to match, but she wore neither rings nor earrings, and her garb, while well-made, was simple and unadorned, deep green and brown and cut to emphasize hips and bust. Fashionably thin she was not, but Emalda's slender hips had ended as a curse more than a blessing- not a thing anyone would ever say of her daughter.
And, hopefully, no one would ever say she was coward. Wrapping her fur-lined cloak a bit tighter around herself, Desmosia lifted her chin and lead her party through the ruins. She brought only seven people with her, both as a sign of trust and blessing. Eight was a sacred number, though she would have truly preferred the protection of more men. Only two of her party were knights; four were nobles and one was a scholar of some distinction, Auriel of Watersbreak. His quill didn't strike her as particularly useful in this situation, and she wondered not for the first time why she had chosen him instead of someone more... formidable.
Too late now. Too late to do anything except arrange her features in the most regal expression she could manage and step through the doors into the inner sanctum. An attempt was made to light the torches, but the broken walls let in too much gusting wind and their tinderboxes could not get a proper spark going. With only two flickering sources of light prepared they heard the Fire delegation arrive- they would probably think them fools, Desmosia reflected as one of the torches blew out, but not half so foolish as she felt. Borderlands were all well and good for showing mutual trust, but they lacked for creature comforts.
"Greetings," She addresed the party as they arrived, stepping forward with her hands outstretched, first finger touching her thumbs in a gesture of welcome. "I bid you peace and good tidings."
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