FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
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The Fall of the Riders
- Thread starter FloatingAroundSpace
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FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Balin Passi
There were two constants in the life of a dragon rider. One, was the dragon itself, a mighty beast that blew flames from its mouth and struck terror into the hearts of all that had not warred with them for years on end. Hell, even those that had lived alongside the creatures knew that they were never quite safe from their claws, their teeth, their flames, and their temper. Balin had a few scars to show for it on his own body from when the ones that he rode became too hungry and he did not pay enough attention, or they wanted more space than he had offered them. They were fickle creatures and powerful ones, ones that believed in the second constant of a dragon rider's life; that almost anything would bow to the dragon and in return, its rider.
Fear was, after all, a very powerful tool.
Balin had rode Malliah for years on end, being the first of the dragons that would come into his possession, and knew that most could recognize the glint of purple light that came off of his dragon's scales. It gave Balin a sense of pride, that the locals knew when he was coming. And they feared his approach as well.
He had scorched the last lands of whatever nation it was that needed to be scorched, donning armor of his house's colors in light shades of purple. His son had flown alongside him for the first time atop his own dragon, both still fledglings and still struggling to understand the scope of what they could do. It had been mildly amusing to watch Hardeep and Slytha dart across the air, swooping down to pick up soldiers and toss them upwards, causing havoc where it wasn't quite needed, the sight of a dragon enough to stir people into a frenzy. Balin had suggested to Hardeep to set the fields aflame and had watched as Slytha obliged, clearly more willing than her master.
Balin would have asked why but it was not of his concern; Slytha rained destruction as expected and the nation had surrendered without much of a fuss. Hardeep and Balin were given honors and they had simply continued their way of life.
The only thing that concerned Balin now was the lack of house heirs.
True, he had been in his early thirties when he had wedded his wife (long may she rest) and in his mid thirties when Hardeep had been ushered into the world, kicking and screaming, but at least he had shown interest in women. He knew that Hardeep had shared a bed with one of the servants in the household and Balin had of course turned a blind eye; half of the sons of the dragon riders shared beds with one another, bored and possibly finding women unappealing. It would not be so big of a concern if Balin had had more children, more potential heirs for the home. Even the Makhai's had their half-slave child to use if the time came (and Balin supposed that it was wise, given that the eldest daughter had not yet produced a child after years of marriage and their son had not turned away from their lover's bed to look for a suitable match). Balin had only Hardeep and Hardeep seemed very uninterested in finding someone to marry.
Balin hoped it was simply because he had not found a woman that appealed to him. Hell, Balin would accept a half-slave child if he must, so long as it had some Passi blood in it. He considered himself fairly open to the locals, to the slaves and servants that dotted his household, cleaning their sigil, a blood red eye on a white background with a sprig of lilac and lavender each crossed behind it. Supposedly, the eye could see all that happened underneath it, though Balin thought those were just petty little rumors to scare the servants into being good.
If it worked, he did not know but he never tried to dissuade anyone from believing it, aside from his son, who had stared up at it with a far too pensive face for Balin's comfort more times than he could count anymore.
Balin had spotted Hardeep glancing at the sigil above their mantel in the large living room that morning as he was boarding Malliah for his morning routes. He had clucked his tongue at his son, who had simply ignored him, a habit that Balin had never bothered shaking out of him. After all, Hardeep kept himself honorable and fearsome enough that no one dared raise a hand against him. If he wanted to stare at the sigil, so be it.
The sun had already made the land scorching by the time that Balin and Malliah had flown to the edges of Nuru, towards the farm lands. He kept an eye out down below, using a telescope that he had bought sometime ago that made patrols much easier. The little bit of glass that allowed Balin to see so much farther felt like a bit of the magic that the old ones in the forest that he had one flown by whispered about.
He was sure it was not. He had watched the man dismantle the object, show him the glass, and put it back together again with the reassurance that it did not draw upon mysterious forces or endanger his life.
He was superstitious after all, especially after the way his wife had died, in a fight that should not have happened but did anyways.
As Balin glanced over the ground, he spotted a few shapes moving in the distance, sliding along the fields that were the only specks of color in the otherwise yellow landscape that blazed like the fire of his beasts. Balin tapped Malliah's side with his foot, commanding her dip downwards.
They were slaves, moving about with their heads down, their clothes dirty, and their air of that of a slave. Balin had long learned that no matter how much clothing you wear, how clean it is, how pretty it is, a slave will always duck their head and dart their eyes, a sense of fear always around them.
Aside from that one in the Makhai household who never seemed to fear anything, not even the beasts that had already scratched her once or twice.
If she was not a slave and not useless, Balin would offer her to Hardeep, but she was and she was also young and barely a woman, which would have made Balin uncomfortable as well. A child was a child after all, and he had had one. To think of Hardeep being given to another as a husband made his skin crawl. He wouldn't subject the young one to it.
The slaves he saw before him as Malliah landed were not quite as young or at least, the sun had tanned them enough that they did not look that way. Balin examined them, his eye wandering over their bent backs and dirty hair.
He could use another slave. And he was sure the farmer could use one less mouth to feed.
Glancing over the rows once more, Balin stroked his chin in thought as Malliah snorted, embers flying from her nostrils. She peered around at them, her purple eye menacing and causing the slaves to shuffle faster, work harder, avoid the scaly beast that could kill them if she was in a bad mood.
"You there," he said, snapping his fingers at a nearby slave, "what's your master's name?"
Fear was, after all, a very powerful tool.
Balin had rode Malliah for years on end, being the first of the dragons that would come into his possession, and knew that most could recognize the glint of purple light that came off of his dragon's scales. It gave Balin a sense of pride, that the locals knew when he was coming. And they feared his approach as well.
He had scorched the last lands of whatever nation it was that needed to be scorched, donning armor of his house's colors in light shades of purple. His son had flown alongside him for the first time atop his own dragon, both still fledglings and still struggling to understand the scope of what they could do. It had been mildly amusing to watch Hardeep and Slytha dart across the air, swooping down to pick up soldiers and toss them upwards, causing havoc where it wasn't quite needed, the sight of a dragon enough to stir people into a frenzy. Balin had suggested to Hardeep to set the fields aflame and had watched as Slytha obliged, clearly more willing than her master.
Balin would have asked why but it was not of his concern; Slytha rained destruction as expected and the nation had surrendered without much of a fuss. Hardeep and Balin were given honors and they had simply continued their way of life.
The only thing that concerned Balin now was the lack of house heirs.
True, he had been in his early thirties when he had wedded his wife (long may she rest) and in his mid thirties when Hardeep had been ushered into the world, kicking and screaming, but at least he had shown interest in women. He knew that Hardeep had shared a bed with one of the servants in the household and Balin had of course turned a blind eye; half of the sons of the dragon riders shared beds with one another, bored and possibly finding women unappealing. It would not be so big of a concern if Balin had had more children, more potential heirs for the home. Even the Makhai's had their half-slave child to use if the time came (and Balin supposed that it was wise, given that the eldest daughter had not yet produced a child after years of marriage and their son had not turned away from their lover's bed to look for a suitable match). Balin had only Hardeep and Hardeep seemed very uninterested in finding someone to marry.
Balin hoped it was simply because he had not found a woman that appealed to him. Hell, Balin would accept a half-slave child if he must, so long as it had some Passi blood in it. He considered himself fairly open to the locals, to the slaves and servants that dotted his household, cleaning their sigil, a blood red eye on a white background with a sprig of lilac and lavender each crossed behind it. Supposedly, the eye could see all that happened underneath it, though Balin thought those were just petty little rumors to scare the servants into being good.
If it worked, he did not know but he never tried to dissuade anyone from believing it, aside from his son, who had stared up at it with a far too pensive face for Balin's comfort more times than he could count anymore.
Balin had spotted Hardeep glancing at the sigil above their mantel in the large living room that morning as he was boarding Malliah for his morning routes. He had clucked his tongue at his son, who had simply ignored him, a habit that Balin had never bothered shaking out of him. After all, Hardeep kept himself honorable and fearsome enough that no one dared raise a hand against him. If he wanted to stare at the sigil, so be it.
The sun had already made the land scorching by the time that Balin and Malliah had flown to the edges of Nuru, towards the farm lands. He kept an eye out down below, using a telescope that he had bought sometime ago that made patrols much easier. The little bit of glass that allowed Balin to see so much farther felt like a bit of the magic that the old ones in the forest that he had one flown by whispered about.
He was sure it was not. He had watched the man dismantle the object, show him the glass, and put it back together again with the reassurance that it did not draw upon mysterious forces or endanger his life.
He was superstitious after all, especially after the way his wife had died, in a fight that should not have happened but did anyways.
As Balin glanced over the ground, he spotted a few shapes moving in the distance, sliding along the fields that were the only specks of color in the otherwise yellow landscape that blazed like the fire of his beasts. Balin tapped Malliah's side with his foot, commanding her dip downwards.
They were slaves, moving about with their heads down, their clothes dirty, and their air of that of a slave. Balin had long learned that no matter how much clothing you wear, how clean it is, how pretty it is, a slave will always duck their head and dart their eyes, a sense of fear always around them.
Aside from that one in the Makhai household who never seemed to fear anything, not even the beasts that had already scratched her once or twice.
If she was not a slave and not useless, Balin would offer her to Hardeep, but she was and she was also young and barely a woman, which would have made Balin uncomfortable as well. A child was a child after all, and he had had one. To think of Hardeep being given to another as a husband made his skin crawl. He wouldn't subject the young one to it.
The slaves he saw before him as Malliah landed were not quite as young or at least, the sun had tanned them enough that they did not look that way. Balin examined them, his eye wandering over their bent backs and dirty hair.
He could use another slave. And he was sure the farmer could use one less mouth to feed.
Glancing over the rows once more, Balin stroked his chin in thought as Malliah snorted, embers flying from her nostrils. She peered around at them, her purple eye menacing and causing the slaves to shuffle faster, work harder, avoid the scaly beast that could kill them if she was in a bad mood.
"You there," he said, snapping his fingers at a nearby slave, "what's your master's name?"
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
A pant, a wince, a brush of a hand over a brow to wipe off the sweat. Back to work.
A life of a slave was a simple one. Indeed, it narrowed down to two words – work and sleep. Every day was the same, changing ever so slightly as the seasons passed and the masters demanded either more, or less from some servant or the other. For some servants the life was a carefree one, narrowed down to only one goal – to please the masters. How this goal could be achieved depended all on the slave’s role in the household. Some thought it was enough to make tea just right, adding just the perfect amount of spices and heating the water to both cool and calm the one requesting the drink. Others, instead, thought it was enough to spread one’s legs wide enough and guess just how much affection the one on top needed during the night.
Other servants, those who worked the fields from dusk to dawn, thought it was enough to tend to the poor soil and pray every night to whichever God they believed in, that the harvest would be plentiful. Plentiful harvest meant a happy master. A happy master meant no whippings, no punishments, and, perhaps, a bit more food. Maybe even better tools to plough the soil.
And then there was Irene, who cared about how her master was pleased as much as she cared about the grime stuck under her fingernails. Not at all.
It was oddly windy. The sun was beating down onto the workers, burning their backs even through the protective layer of the linen rags they wore. Sweat rolled down their faces, backs, necks, coiling through the fabric and dampening it to make it stick to their frail bodies. The wind was not a cool one, one that brought a scent of fresh dew; neither was it a rejuvenating breeze. Instead it was harsh and carried sand that scratched against the exposed skin of the people crouched down on the fields.
With the air being hot it was hard to breathe. It was hard to move, too. As if the air had turned thicker. The stench of sweat hung above the field, combined with the smell of urine and compost. Air rippled above the ground, distorting one’s vision.
Another bead of sweat rolled down Irene’s brow. Her vision blurred and she blinked off the moisture, let go of the weed and wiped her face with the end of the shawl that hung loosely over her head.
Just like the others around her, Irene wore the clothing on thin linen that had seen better days and never a good wash. Dirtied at the hem, the gown was tightly secured at the waist with a thin leather sash. The sash had been roped around her waist more than once, its edges frayed and stretched, and at the back it was sewn together after having snapped some months ago. A thin shawl was wrapped around her head and neck, partly for protection against the sun but also to cover the neck. The gown and the shawl carefully concealed the black ink beneath the clothing. And from beneath the folds of the dirtied cloth was the leather collar, a reminder of her position. As if she needed another reminder.
Other slaves, some crouched down in their respective spots, others moving about to spread the compost over the dying soil, were dressed in identical short tunics of linen. Ripped here and there, dirtied and covered in patches upon patches of different coloured cloth, the clothing had barely kept together at the seams.
Like bright spots of white they were, the slaves. The crème coloured linen was a sharp contrast against their tanned skin. Bones protruded in angles through their clothing, muscles roped around their thin bodies and moved beneath the blemished and scarred skin with each subtle movement. Their eyes were deep-set and hollow, surrounded by a myriad of wrinkles and discolouration. Their hair was dark and covered by a shawl similar to Irene’s, wrapped around their heads and even faces as a poor way of protection against the sandy winds.
They all moved about slowly, as if in a daze, working their small part of the field only to change places with someone else and exchange tasks. No one spoke. No one even whispered to one another. Not even when they walked towards one another and continued with their work or took up a new task. This was a routine that everyone was familiar with, and, thus, there was no need for communication.
And they all glanced about like children guilty with a crime. Panicked looks stuck to their features as they glanced up to scan the horizon and then wince as their gaze slid over the bright disk of the sun. Then, they blinked away the blindness and continued their work.
How long has it been?
Another weed, another pull. The useless plant was thrown into the basket already half full of the golden coloured dried stalks.
No more than three years. A month or so above the mark of two summers, perhaps. It was hard to tell now. Days were so uniform, so similar to one another that it was hard to keep track of the time. The only way to know the seasons was the amount of full moons left until the harvest was to be collected or new seeds planted.
Two years of slavery.
Irene’s hand stopped midway towards another dried weed that needed to be pulled out of the dying soil beneath the soles of the woman’s straw sandals. She turned her hand over and gazed at the palm of her hand. It was calloused, as it always has been. The callouses were very much visible on her olive skin. Once the rough patches of her skin was something she was proud of. She was but a child back then, a teenager who had mastered the art of spear wielding and who was so immensely proud of herself for having undergone the rigorous training and survived it without breaking her neck or jumping off a nearby cliff as a way to escape her strict mentor. Then, she stopped caring. The callouses were simply there, a mere reminder of what she was capable of, a reminder of what she was taught and who had done it. Now? Now the rough patches were a reminder of good times long gone, and a reminder of what she once was and what it led her to turn into.
Such reminders covered her body all over in scars. The scars were bright lines against her tanned skin. Both old and new, they crisscrossed over her body here and there. Some were long and thin, smooth around the edges and healed beautifully despite their once horrid appearance. Others were ragged and patchy, some round and others less so. Thankfully, most of such scars were hidden beneath the long gown, and the linen did a splendid job at covering the most hideous of scars.
The woman pressed her lips tightly into a thin line. Her gaze slid over her palm and up towards the biceps of her right arm. It was thin but muscled, just as the rest of her body was.
Irene sighed through her nose and forced herself to lift her gaze from the once strong limbs that served her well in battle years ago. Now, her stamina, muscles, and callouses on her palms were enough to warrant her a job in the fields. After all, that is why she was bought.
Three in one, that farmer thought when he had seen Irene in the slave market a little over two years ago. She was naked then, as were the rest of the slaves. They all were placed before a high wall decorated with turquoise whorls of flowers and waves. Muscled and scarred, thin and frail, plump and voluptuous. There were all sorts of people around Irene. Women cried silently and clung to their breasts in a poor attempt to cover them as men ogled at them. Men set their jaws and glared, their faces sometimes bruised from a punishment or maybe some brawl of not too long ago.
That day, the man who had been selling Irene had claimed all sorts of nonsense as he screamed his lungs out. Oh, how idiotic those claims were, but for the situation that she was in Irene would have snorted. But as it was, humour had left her along with her freedom. Despite the moronic undertone of the blatant lies of the merchant, who claimed that Irene was some legendary warrior from a far off land, cursed by the Gods to be infertile for her sins against them, or something or other, the people at the market that day yelled out their prices vigorously.
It was not a brothel owner that bought her, or some nobleman who wished another woman in his household. Instead, it was a farmer. A wealthy farmer, too. He spent a pretty amount of coin that day, having convinced himself that it was a good idea to buy a woman who could work the fields, guard them, and keep him company at night without having to fear for any bastards being born afterwards.
There were other slaves in the fields when Irene arrived to the farmer’s household. All were decently fed, dressed, and were quiet enough that their company was not a nuisance. Along with Irene a man was bought, a young one who had just reached the age of twenty. He had died a year afterwards from hunger, as did most of the others. It was the year when the farmer had his fields burnt down by the dragon riders.
Slowly Irene reached up and brushed the end of the shawl over her face once more. The end slipped off her shoulder and fell onto the ground often, absorbing in the dirt with its damp end. So each time she reached towards the shawl to wipe off the beads of sweat once again, some dirt rubbed against her forehead and cheeks in dark smears. Not that she cared much for such trivial matters.
Another weed, another tug and pull until the ground released the drying roots of the plant. It was time to move to another spot on the field, where the grain unwillingly rose towards the sun.
The field was once grand. Now it was but a small part of the once vast land, the only part untouched by the dragon’s fire that day. The only part that still could grow some grain and feed the farmer’s family and the slaves working the fields.
Her back ached uncomfortably as Irene straightened, pressed her hand against her knee for support while reaching out towards the basket beside her, and got up.
It was then that a shadow fell over the field.
Other slaves noticed the change. They looked up to the sky, their lips parted in a gasp, their eyes wide in shock and fear. And then, just as quickly as they looked up in curiosity, they looked down and continued with their work much faster than before. The sudden appearance of the shadow had broken the daze, filled the air with tension that pushed against the slaves, making them slouch forward more than before in a poor attempt to hide their faces in the shadows of their messy and dirtied hair, or behind the thin cloth of their shawls.
Irene turned around to look over her shoulder but could only catch a flash of purple before the gust of wind hit her hard in the face. Brought forth by the mighty wings of the dragon just a short distance away, the wind carried heat and sand that bit and scraped against her skin. Bringing up her right shoulder and turning with her side towards the dragon was a matter of instinct. It was a memory of a defensive stance that was drilled into her mind and muscles years ago.
The wind blew hard against her face, forcing the shawl to be pushed down. The long skirt of her gown fluttered around, slapped against her shins. Irene winced as she hid her exposed skin, or tried to, and made herself a much smaller target. The sand laced together with her hair and turned the ashy brown colour into a dusty one.
Once the gust passed Irene straightened once again. The dragon was the first to have caught her gaze. It was a beautiful creature, both elegant and violent in its appearance that should have brought fear into the woman’s heart. Instead, it brought a variety of different emotions. Awe, curiosity, shock, nostalgia, and anger. There was a purple light to the dragon’s scales, a colour that Irene missed and had almost forgotten how it felt to see it against her own skin. It was a different tint, sure, much lighter and softer but it brought memories that she thought were long buried in her mind.
Someone hissed at her side, a barely audible warning. A man, the closest to Irene, had lifted his eyes to look at her through the narrow slits that his brown eyes had turned into. It was a sound that mixed together with the sound of the clothes shuffling in the wind, with the dirt being dug up to take out a weed. The man had risked much in producing any sound with a rider being so close by. But he masked it well enough, and it brought Irene back into the reality.
The rider spoke to her as he snapped at the woman, his voice bearing a commanding tone that he seemed to be accustomed to using.
A sane part of the woman’s mind urged her to bow. So she did. The basket was still clutched in her hands it held close to her. Any other slave would have thrown the basket onto the ground and prostrated themselves before the dragon rider, their head bowed so low their foreheads dug into the ground. Irene, however, bowed with her back straight and her head inclined down, her silver eyes on the ground.
“Hisraad Malak, My Lord,” Irene said. Her voice was dry and hoarse, making the words come out as a mere whisper.
Behind her, some distance away, was Hisraad’s household. Or rather, what was left of it.
It was but a cluster of buildings made of stone and clay, bright against the sun’s scorching rays. The main building was separated from the fields by a fence, behind which a variety of flowers grew in bright spots of yellow and pink. It was a two storey house with a flat thatched roof. Windows were small holes in the walls covered by curtains of thinning linen, washed to the point of near transparency. Then, just beyond the main building, was a barn. A small and shrivelled thing it was, with a falling in roof and walls dirtied by a variety of stains. Across from the barn was another building, much smaller but newer, judging from the roof’s condition and the pristine surface of the walls. It was but a shed, rebuilt just the past winter after one of the walls had given way and had the entire structure collapse. In the middle of the cluster was a well, now covered by a large wooden plank to hide the water from the scorching sun and stray sand.
There were voices heard from the main building, some commotion as one door burst open and someone moved around the house to enter the farm fields on its other side. Clothes shifted about on the man approaching the field.
“Ah, Your Grace,” the voice of the farmer reached Irene’s ears, “I, Hisraad Malak, welcome you to my humble abode.”
Hisraad himself was but a husk of what he once was. Plump and full of life years ago, the man now had grown thin and weak. With all silks sold long ago, the gems traded for much more modest clothing and any baubles of value given away to pay off the debt, the man still clung onto the remains of his wealth. Some items he kept and hidden. They were simple things, really, but still of enough value to buy a sack of grain or some newer clothing for the servants. Vests of thick leather hides, headpieces encrusted with small polished amethysts and obsidians, paintings, tapestries, rugs, some wooden carvings. Some were hung in the guest room of the house, the place where he sometimes invited some merchant or the other for some tea that was kept for occasions such as these. It was the only tea he had left, one with spices procured from across Crubia. Its value was proven to be astronomical when a young girl, only fifteen summers had passed her brow, spilled some of the tea onto the floor whilst preparing it for a guest. Hisraad had beaten her bloody that day, and she died soon afterwards. The man did not look too shocked by her death. Indeed, he looked almost relieved to see the girl be taken away the next day.
And now, whatever he could wear from his collection of petty treasures, he pulled onto himself in a hurry before leaving the house to greet the dragon rider. The leather vest was far too big for him, the headpiece kept sliding off the thinning dark hair.
“Can I be of service to His Grace in any way?” There was a thump as the farmer fell onto his knees and prostrated himself some distance behind Irene.
A life of a slave was a simple one. Indeed, it narrowed down to two words – work and sleep. Every day was the same, changing ever so slightly as the seasons passed and the masters demanded either more, or less from some servant or the other. For some servants the life was a carefree one, narrowed down to only one goal – to please the masters. How this goal could be achieved depended all on the slave’s role in the household. Some thought it was enough to make tea just right, adding just the perfect amount of spices and heating the water to both cool and calm the one requesting the drink. Others, instead, thought it was enough to spread one’s legs wide enough and guess just how much affection the one on top needed during the night.
Other servants, those who worked the fields from dusk to dawn, thought it was enough to tend to the poor soil and pray every night to whichever God they believed in, that the harvest would be plentiful. Plentiful harvest meant a happy master. A happy master meant no whippings, no punishments, and, perhaps, a bit more food. Maybe even better tools to plough the soil.
And then there was Irene, who cared about how her master was pleased as much as she cared about the grime stuck under her fingernails. Not at all.
It was oddly windy. The sun was beating down onto the workers, burning their backs even through the protective layer of the linen rags they wore. Sweat rolled down their faces, backs, necks, coiling through the fabric and dampening it to make it stick to their frail bodies. The wind was not a cool one, one that brought a scent of fresh dew; neither was it a rejuvenating breeze. Instead it was harsh and carried sand that scratched against the exposed skin of the people crouched down on the fields.
With the air being hot it was hard to breathe. It was hard to move, too. As if the air had turned thicker. The stench of sweat hung above the field, combined with the smell of urine and compost. Air rippled above the ground, distorting one’s vision.
Another bead of sweat rolled down Irene’s brow. Her vision blurred and she blinked off the moisture, let go of the weed and wiped her face with the end of the shawl that hung loosely over her head.
Just like the others around her, Irene wore the clothing on thin linen that had seen better days and never a good wash. Dirtied at the hem, the gown was tightly secured at the waist with a thin leather sash. The sash had been roped around her waist more than once, its edges frayed and stretched, and at the back it was sewn together after having snapped some months ago. A thin shawl was wrapped around her head and neck, partly for protection against the sun but also to cover the neck. The gown and the shawl carefully concealed the black ink beneath the clothing. And from beneath the folds of the dirtied cloth was the leather collar, a reminder of her position. As if she needed another reminder.
Other slaves, some crouched down in their respective spots, others moving about to spread the compost over the dying soil, were dressed in identical short tunics of linen. Ripped here and there, dirtied and covered in patches upon patches of different coloured cloth, the clothing had barely kept together at the seams.
Like bright spots of white they were, the slaves. The crème coloured linen was a sharp contrast against their tanned skin. Bones protruded in angles through their clothing, muscles roped around their thin bodies and moved beneath the blemished and scarred skin with each subtle movement. Their eyes were deep-set and hollow, surrounded by a myriad of wrinkles and discolouration. Their hair was dark and covered by a shawl similar to Irene’s, wrapped around their heads and even faces as a poor way of protection against the sandy winds.
They all moved about slowly, as if in a daze, working their small part of the field only to change places with someone else and exchange tasks. No one spoke. No one even whispered to one another. Not even when they walked towards one another and continued with their work or took up a new task. This was a routine that everyone was familiar with, and, thus, there was no need for communication.
And they all glanced about like children guilty with a crime. Panicked looks stuck to their features as they glanced up to scan the horizon and then wince as their gaze slid over the bright disk of the sun. Then, they blinked away the blindness and continued their work.
How long has it been?
Another weed, another pull. The useless plant was thrown into the basket already half full of the golden coloured dried stalks.
No more than three years. A month or so above the mark of two summers, perhaps. It was hard to tell now. Days were so uniform, so similar to one another that it was hard to keep track of the time. The only way to know the seasons was the amount of full moons left until the harvest was to be collected or new seeds planted.
Two years of slavery.
Irene’s hand stopped midway towards another dried weed that needed to be pulled out of the dying soil beneath the soles of the woman’s straw sandals. She turned her hand over and gazed at the palm of her hand. It was calloused, as it always has been. The callouses were very much visible on her olive skin. Once the rough patches of her skin was something she was proud of. She was but a child back then, a teenager who had mastered the art of spear wielding and who was so immensely proud of herself for having undergone the rigorous training and survived it without breaking her neck or jumping off a nearby cliff as a way to escape her strict mentor. Then, she stopped caring. The callouses were simply there, a mere reminder of what she was capable of, a reminder of what she was taught and who had done it. Now? Now the rough patches were a reminder of good times long gone, and a reminder of what she once was and what it led her to turn into.
Such reminders covered her body all over in scars. The scars were bright lines against her tanned skin. Both old and new, they crisscrossed over her body here and there. Some were long and thin, smooth around the edges and healed beautifully despite their once horrid appearance. Others were ragged and patchy, some round and others less so. Thankfully, most of such scars were hidden beneath the long gown, and the linen did a splendid job at covering the most hideous of scars.
The woman pressed her lips tightly into a thin line. Her gaze slid over her palm and up towards the biceps of her right arm. It was thin but muscled, just as the rest of her body was.
Irene sighed through her nose and forced herself to lift her gaze from the once strong limbs that served her well in battle years ago. Now, her stamina, muscles, and callouses on her palms were enough to warrant her a job in the fields. After all, that is why she was bought.
Three in one, that farmer thought when he had seen Irene in the slave market a little over two years ago. She was naked then, as were the rest of the slaves. They all were placed before a high wall decorated with turquoise whorls of flowers and waves. Muscled and scarred, thin and frail, plump and voluptuous. There were all sorts of people around Irene. Women cried silently and clung to their breasts in a poor attempt to cover them as men ogled at them. Men set their jaws and glared, their faces sometimes bruised from a punishment or maybe some brawl of not too long ago.
That day, the man who had been selling Irene had claimed all sorts of nonsense as he screamed his lungs out. Oh, how idiotic those claims were, but for the situation that she was in Irene would have snorted. But as it was, humour had left her along with her freedom. Despite the moronic undertone of the blatant lies of the merchant, who claimed that Irene was some legendary warrior from a far off land, cursed by the Gods to be infertile for her sins against them, or something or other, the people at the market that day yelled out their prices vigorously.
It was not a brothel owner that bought her, or some nobleman who wished another woman in his household. Instead, it was a farmer. A wealthy farmer, too. He spent a pretty amount of coin that day, having convinced himself that it was a good idea to buy a woman who could work the fields, guard them, and keep him company at night without having to fear for any bastards being born afterwards.
There were other slaves in the fields when Irene arrived to the farmer’s household. All were decently fed, dressed, and were quiet enough that their company was not a nuisance. Along with Irene a man was bought, a young one who had just reached the age of twenty. He had died a year afterwards from hunger, as did most of the others. It was the year when the farmer had his fields burnt down by the dragon riders.
Slowly Irene reached up and brushed the end of the shawl over her face once more. The end slipped off her shoulder and fell onto the ground often, absorbing in the dirt with its damp end. So each time she reached towards the shawl to wipe off the beads of sweat once again, some dirt rubbed against her forehead and cheeks in dark smears. Not that she cared much for such trivial matters.
Another weed, another tug and pull until the ground released the drying roots of the plant. It was time to move to another spot on the field, where the grain unwillingly rose towards the sun.
The field was once grand. Now it was but a small part of the once vast land, the only part untouched by the dragon’s fire that day. The only part that still could grow some grain and feed the farmer’s family and the slaves working the fields.
Her back ached uncomfortably as Irene straightened, pressed her hand against her knee for support while reaching out towards the basket beside her, and got up.
It was then that a shadow fell over the field.
Other slaves noticed the change. They looked up to the sky, their lips parted in a gasp, their eyes wide in shock and fear. And then, just as quickly as they looked up in curiosity, they looked down and continued with their work much faster than before. The sudden appearance of the shadow had broken the daze, filled the air with tension that pushed against the slaves, making them slouch forward more than before in a poor attempt to hide their faces in the shadows of their messy and dirtied hair, or behind the thin cloth of their shawls.
Irene turned around to look over her shoulder but could only catch a flash of purple before the gust of wind hit her hard in the face. Brought forth by the mighty wings of the dragon just a short distance away, the wind carried heat and sand that bit and scraped against her skin. Bringing up her right shoulder and turning with her side towards the dragon was a matter of instinct. It was a memory of a defensive stance that was drilled into her mind and muscles years ago.
The wind blew hard against her face, forcing the shawl to be pushed down. The long skirt of her gown fluttered around, slapped against her shins. Irene winced as she hid her exposed skin, or tried to, and made herself a much smaller target. The sand laced together with her hair and turned the ashy brown colour into a dusty one.
Once the gust passed Irene straightened once again. The dragon was the first to have caught her gaze. It was a beautiful creature, both elegant and violent in its appearance that should have brought fear into the woman’s heart. Instead, it brought a variety of different emotions. Awe, curiosity, shock, nostalgia, and anger. There was a purple light to the dragon’s scales, a colour that Irene missed and had almost forgotten how it felt to see it against her own skin. It was a different tint, sure, much lighter and softer but it brought memories that she thought were long buried in her mind.
Someone hissed at her side, a barely audible warning. A man, the closest to Irene, had lifted his eyes to look at her through the narrow slits that his brown eyes had turned into. It was a sound that mixed together with the sound of the clothes shuffling in the wind, with the dirt being dug up to take out a weed. The man had risked much in producing any sound with a rider being so close by. But he masked it well enough, and it brought Irene back into the reality.
The rider spoke to her as he snapped at the woman, his voice bearing a commanding tone that he seemed to be accustomed to using.
A sane part of the woman’s mind urged her to bow. So she did. The basket was still clutched in her hands it held close to her. Any other slave would have thrown the basket onto the ground and prostrated themselves before the dragon rider, their head bowed so low their foreheads dug into the ground. Irene, however, bowed with her back straight and her head inclined down, her silver eyes on the ground.
“Hisraad Malak, My Lord,” Irene said. Her voice was dry and hoarse, making the words come out as a mere whisper.
Behind her, some distance away, was Hisraad’s household. Or rather, what was left of it.
It was but a cluster of buildings made of stone and clay, bright against the sun’s scorching rays. The main building was separated from the fields by a fence, behind which a variety of flowers grew in bright spots of yellow and pink. It was a two storey house with a flat thatched roof. Windows were small holes in the walls covered by curtains of thinning linen, washed to the point of near transparency. Then, just beyond the main building, was a barn. A small and shrivelled thing it was, with a falling in roof and walls dirtied by a variety of stains. Across from the barn was another building, much smaller but newer, judging from the roof’s condition and the pristine surface of the walls. It was but a shed, rebuilt just the past winter after one of the walls had given way and had the entire structure collapse. In the middle of the cluster was a well, now covered by a large wooden plank to hide the water from the scorching sun and stray sand.
There were voices heard from the main building, some commotion as one door burst open and someone moved around the house to enter the farm fields on its other side. Clothes shifted about on the man approaching the field.
“Ah, Your Grace,” the voice of the farmer reached Irene’s ears, “I, Hisraad Malak, welcome you to my humble abode.”
Hisraad himself was but a husk of what he once was. Plump and full of life years ago, the man now had grown thin and weak. With all silks sold long ago, the gems traded for much more modest clothing and any baubles of value given away to pay off the debt, the man still clung onto the remains of his wealth. Some items he kept and hidden. They were simple things, really, but still of enough value to buy a sack of grain or some newer clothing for the servants. Vests of thick leather hides, headpieces encrusted with small polished amethysts and obsidians, paintings, tapestries, rugs, some wooden carvings. Some were hung in the guest room of the house, the place where he sometimes invited some merchant or the other for some tea that was kept for occasions such as these. It was the only tea he had left, one with spices procured from across Crubia. Its value was proven to be astronomical when a young girl, only fifteen summers had passed her brow, spilled some of the tea onto the floor whilst preparing it for a guest. Hisraad had beaten her bloody that day, and she died soon afterwards. The man did not look too shocked by her death. Indeed, he looked almost relieved to see the girl be taken away the next day.
And now, whatever he could wear from his collection of petty treasures, he pulled onto himself in a hurry before leaving the house to greet the dragon rider. The leather vest was far too big for him, the headpiece kept sliding off the thinning dark hair.
“Can I be of service to His Grace in any way?” There was a thump as the farmer fell onto his knees and prostrated himself some distance behind Irene.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Balin Passi
Malliah snorted next to Balin, her head swiveling over the meager field. She dipped downwards and leaned in close to a few slaves on the edge, sniffing at them and their dirty linen curiously, almost like a cat. "Malliah," Ballin said sharply and the dragon snorted a heavy and hot gust of air out onto the figure before lifting her head up and glaring at her owner out of the corner of her eye. She seemed more incline to poke around the slaves than stand around, her wings folded neatly by her side and her eyes still wandering to the figures below her.
"I've noticed you've kept quite a bit of an array of slaves here," Balin said calmly, walking up to one and peering at them from under their hood. He frowned slightly before straightening up. "They seem to be hard workers."
He paced in front of the row for a moment, his sword clinking against his armor, a faint purple color like his house colors. His sigil was sewn into a piece of linen draped over his belt, a sort of flag to tell everyone who he was at a glance. Malliah took the time to snort once more, this time embers flowing from her nostrils. She seemed to enjoy riling up the others, a twinkle in her eye that Balin recognized.
"They are indeed, Your Grace," Hisraad said quickly.
Balin squinted closer at them, pacing across the row and examining their figures. They looked thin and unkept and unwell in many ways. Balin paused in front of one woman, her face dirty.
"How much?" he asked abruptly.
The farmer turned to him in surprise.
"Excuse me, Your Grace?"
"How much for one of yours?" Balin continued, "I've need for another hand in my own home and perhaps taking a mouth away from your homestead might do you well. You don't seem able to look after the ones you have right now."
The farmer seemed flustered and opened his mouth as if to argue with the dragon rider, who simply turned to stare at him levelly chin jutting out. He was a warrior, trained to fight from when he could walk with a hot-tempered creature at his back, her own claws and teeth well sharpened through years of care.
"Depends on which one," the farmer said, wilting slightly.
"Which one do you find least useful?" Balin asked, knowing the tricks of men like him. Hisraad may have been wealthy once but Balin knew that he was also more than likely greedy, someone who would not give up what he had easily. His state of dress was juxtaposed against the harsh landscape and the meager rows of crops he had. Balin's trained eye knew that a man of his status would not be farming like this; after all, the wealthy farmers now lived farther from the cities, away from the burning dragons and chaotic merchants, all running over each other in some bid to be on top.
The man pointed at a woman with silver eyes and who stood straighter than the other slaves. Balin glanced over her for a moment, tilting his head to assess where she might be of use to him.
"I'll take this one then," he said crisply and the man seemed to reel for a second. "What?" Balin challenged, glancing at the farmer. "Do you take me for a fool? Do not forget it was one of my own who burned your land," he said, his voice steely. "I know how men of your nature play this game of living and I know that greed is not washed out by blood, not easily anyways. A fire only goes out if nothing is there to tend to it and it would seem to me that you still live a life of luxury at this point."
"Your Grace," Hisraad began, his face paling and his eyes bulging. Balin snapped his fingers at Malliah who gave a warning snort, lifting her head up to the sky and opening her mouth. A short puff of fire blew from her throat, curling in the heat and adding to it. The wind blew it closer to the slaves who shuddered underneath it, peering up at the great beast as it turned back down to peer at the little things that entertained her so much.
"I'll pay you good coin if you do not resist," Balin said calmly.
"There must be another, one that is stronger, more resilient, a man perhaps?" Hisraad said in a hurry. "A man to worship your daughter?"
"I have no daughters," Balin said coolly, his temper starting to boil. "Nor do I have times for your petty games. I have to get back to my own home, tend to my own household, which you're clearly lacking. Do not make me take all of your slaves and burn what you have left as a lesson, farmer."
Hisraad trembled for a second, mouth opening and closing as if he was tempted to argue more.
There was the sound of metal grating against metal as Balin reached for the hilt of his sword, pulling it out slowly. He touched the flat side of the blade and turned it into the sun, gazing at the glinting metal with a bored expression. "Quickly," he said, "do tell me what you want for her and I'll give it. Or perhaps I will just take what I would like."
"Three hundred golden dragons," Hisraad said finally.
"She is undernourished. Two hundred is what I will offer you."
"Your Grace--"
"I am a busy man," Balin said, "and your actions have told me you are a slippery one. I don't appreciate being stuck in one place for two long because of men like you. Malliah here is getting hungry as well and she will no doubt find you a less than filling meal, but one that she can consume nonetheless."
The farmer seemed to shake before bowing his head. Balin walked easily back to the saddle he had used to ride Malliah and pulled out a satchel, counting strings of golden coins for a second, each clinking with about ten coins each before tossing them at the farmer.
"Do use them wisely," Balin said calmly, "or else I will be back for them and perhaps more."
He nodded towards the woman he had chosen earlier and jerked his head towards the dragon. "Come," he said, "my son might make better use of you then me. He knows the slaves' tasks more... intimately."
"I've noticed you've kept quite a bit of an array of slaves here," Balin said calmly, walking up to one and peering at them from under their hood. He frowned slightly before straightening up. "They seem to be hard workers."
He paced in front of the row for a moment, his sword clinking against his armor, a faint purple color like his house colors. His sigil was sewn into a piece of linen draped over his belt, a sort of flag to tell everyone who he was at a glance. Malliah took the time to snort once more, this time embers flowing from her nostrils. She seemed to enjoy riling up the others, a twinkle in her eye that Balin recognized.
"They are indeed, Your Grace," Hisraad said quickly.
Balin squinted closer at them, pacing across the row and examining their figures. They looked thin and unkept and unwell in many ways. Balin paused in front of one woman, her face dirty.
"How much?" he asked abruptly.
The farmer turned to him in surprise.
"Excuse me, Your Grace?"
"How much for one of yours?" Balin continued, "I've need for another hand in my own home and perhaps taking a mouth away from your homestead might do you well. You don't seem able to look after the ones you have right now."
The farmer seemed flustered and opened his mouth as if to argue with the dragon rider, who simply turned to stare at him levelly chin jutting out. He was a warrior, trained to fight from when he could walk with a hot-tempered creature at his back, her own claws and teeth well sharpened through years of care.
"Depends on which one," the farmer said, wilting slightly.
"Which one do you find least useful?" Balin asked, knowing the tricks of men like him. Hisraad may have been wealthy once but Balin knew that he was also more than likely greedy, someone who would not give up what he had easily. His state of dress was juxtaposed against the harsh landscape and the meager rows of crops he had. Balin's trained eye knew that a man of his status would not be farming like this; after all, the wealthy farmers now lived farther from the cities, away from the burning dragons and chaotic merchants, all running over each other in some bid to be on top.
The man pointed at a woman with silver eyes and who stood straighter than the other slaves. Balin glanced over her for a moment, tilting his head to assess where she might be of use to him.
"I'll take this one then," he said crisply and the man seemed to reel for a second. "What?" Balin challenged, glancing at the farmer. "Do you take me for a fool? Do not forget it was one of my own who burned your land," he said, his voice steely. "I know how men of your nature play this game of living and I know that greed is not washed out by blood, not easily anyways. A fire only goes out if nothing is there to tend to it and it would seem to me that you still live a life of luxury at this point."
"Your Grace," Hisraad began, his face paling and his eyes bulging. Balin snapped his fingers at Malliah who gave a warning snort, lifting her head up to the sky and opening her mouth. A short puff of fire blew from her throat, curling in the heat and adding to it. The wind blew it closer to the slaves who shuddered underneath it, peering up at the great beast as it turned back down to peer at the little things that entertained her so much.
"I'll pay you good coin if you do not resist," Balin said calmly.
"There must be another, one that is stronger, more resilient, a man perhaps?" Hisraad said in a hurry. "A man to worship your daughter?"
"I have no daughters," Balin said coolly, his temper starting to boil. "Nor do I have times for your petty games. I have to get back to my own home, tend to my own household, which you're clearly lacking. Do not make me take all of your slaves and burn what you have left as a lesson, farmer."
Hisraad trembled for a second, mouth opening and closing as if he was tempted to argue more.
There was the sound of metal grating against metal as Balin reached for the hilt of his sword, pulling it out slowly. He touched the flat side of the blade and turned it into the sun, gazing at the glinting metal with a bored expression. "Quickly," he said, "do tell me what you want for her and I'll give it. Or perhaps I will just take what I would like."
"Three hundred golden dragons," Hisraad said finally.
"She is undernourished. Two hundred is what I will offer you."
"Your Grace--"
"I am a busy man," Balin said, "and your actions have told me you are a slippery one. I don't appreciate being stuck in one place for two long because of men like you. Malliah here is getting hungry as well and she will no doubt find you a less than filling meal, but one that she can consume nonetheless."
The farmer seemed to shake before bowing his head. Balin walked easily back to the saddle he had used to ride Malliah and pulled out a satchel, counting strings of golden coins for a second, each clinking with about ten coins each before tossing them at the farmer.
"Do use them wisely," Balin said calmly, "or else I will be back for them and perhaps more."
He nodded towards the woman he had chosen earlier and jerked his head towards the dragon. "Come," he said, "my son might make better use of you then me. He knows the slaves' tasks more... intimately."
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
Those who crouched low to the ground, bowing so close to the dirty soil that their faces were hidden beneath the growing crops and the shawls over their heads, began to rise. As if by a silent command the slaves stood in a row, shifting and turning whilst still keeping track of the beast that was such a short distance away from them. The linens rustled, hands brushed against the dirt covered in wet compost beneath their feet. Those who prostrated themselves low to the ground, not caring for the spot at all, had some of the dirt smeared over their already spotted linens and their skin was covered in a drying layer of soil mixed with compost. Sweat was wiped off from the foreheads of the slaves, the dampness added to the dirt on their hands. The heat was now not the reason for the beads of sweat to appear like small droplets of amber on their foreheads and necks. It was the dragon and its rider that caused the sweat to come trickling down the backs and faces of the slaves. After all, both the mighty beast and its rider were so close to those who worked the fields that if they dared, they could reach and touch the scales of the dragon or the gleaming armour of the rider.
Being a slave had taught them all how to move silently and slowly, no sudden movements that could draw attention to themselves. Irene, without realising it, had also picked up the trait. She stepped aside from the man and joined the row of others who obediently moved aside to not get in the way of the rider as he paced down the row.
A sense of déjà vu tugged at her mind.
This was not the first time that she stood like this, placed before someone of power and money, other slaves at her side, trembling and scared out of their wits. The only difference being that they all were clothed, however scarcely, and there was a dragon standing casually on the field that was tended to but moments ago.
The useless woven basket was still in Irene’s hands, and others around the woman held onto their tools as well, as meagre as they were. No one dared to let go of the items. Someone even still clutched to a stalk of weed.
It was a sorry sight.
Slaves. The word used to address those in the field was not wrong, and yet to hear it felt odd. It still made Irene press her lips tightly and set her jaw so hard it hurt. Yes, it has been two years since slavery had been forced upon her. And yet, to actually hear being called a slave sent shivers running down her spine on spidery legs.
The rider continued to speak and Hisraad replied hesitantly. No wonder, too. Last time a rider had visited Hisraad’s estate, the fields were left burning. Hisraad spoke carefully, addressed the dragon rider with a title fit for a noble or even a royal had this been another nation. Last time Hisraad was too full of himself to know when to still his tongue.
At her side Irene felt a man shift, the shawl over his cropped short hair moved ever so slightly as the man lifted his head to peek at Hisraad. It was easy enough to guess that the others also dared a glance at their master. All were curious to see who would go, who would be bought into a homestead that had coin to sustain the servants working there.
They all heard rumours. The slaves spoke to one another of how those living as servants to the dragon riders having a life better than most. They were fed, clothed, taken care of as much as a slave would ever be. These were rumours, fantasies, but they gave hope to those working under Hisraad. More than once Irene had heard the slaves whisper under their breath as they prayed every night to be bought into the dragon rider’s household. More than once Irene could see a gleam in the eyes of some slaves as they spoke of the life that they were allowed to hope for.
But people talked, they always have, and those guests who stayed in Hisraad’s estate for a day or two spoke of wonders that even Irene had troubles believing in. The rumours were exaggerated, surely.
So while the ones around Irene hoped they’d be bought, she, instead hoped not to be. Living in a household where dragons were kept as pets or even companions? Where there were guards, armed to the teeth? Escape would be a fantasy. To a slave that life would be the best they could ever hope for. And Irene? She clung to freedom still, even if it was foolish.
Purple gleamed in the woman’s vision. She, as the rest of those around her, kept her gaze down. Though she, unlike the rest, chose to lift her eyes and watch the rider pace. Or rather, watch the armour shine in a colour that she so missed and found to be a rare sight in Hisraad’s estate. Irene’s purples were long ago taken from her and sold; the spear was broken, the wood burnt and the blade tip sold to some blacksmith or another to be re-forged into something new. To see purple again was pleasant, even if it was worn by one who did not deserve to clad himself in it.
Not that the rider would ever care for her opinion on the matter. Not that she would ever voice the opinion.
The rider stopped before her and Irene felt her shoulders tense and her breath catch in her throat. He looked her over and Irene held his gaze. The silver of her eyes was cool and vivid against her tanned skin tone, and for a moment only did the colour dim. In that very same moment the calm expression had left her features and her lips pressed tightly, her eyes narrowed as she glanced at the farmer who dared point a finger at her.
Fool!
The following statement nearly made Irene drop the basket right onto the feet of the rider. Instead, her hands held it tighter; so tight her knuckles turned white. The weight of the collar around her neck, the weight and the feeling of which she got used to after months of wearing it, suddenly was more apparent as it rested beneath the folds of the shawl.
Hisraad tried to negotiate, only to be cut off by the dragon’s fire as it emerged from the mouth of the beast per its rider’s command. The heat scared the slaves enough to make them huddle closer together and Irene felt the pressure of someone’s bony shoulder against her own. She, however, did not cover or tremble at the feeling of the air becoming hotter above her as it enveloped her. Neither did she glance at the dragon in fear. Instead, Irene was utterly still and her eyes were focused on Hisraad who still attempted to choke out some words, and was doing a poor job of it.
No wonder, all things considered.
Hisraad gave in, finally, and named his price. The coin was thrown at him and all watched as the man stumbled forward, scrambling up to his feet to catch the strings of coins before they fell onto the dirty soil. His clothing slapped in the wind, far too big for his frail figure, the vest turned to the side and the headpiece slipped down farther down his oily hair. Beads of sweat gleamed on his forehead and temples, and his bloodshot black eyes bulged as he caught the coin and stared at the gold.
No one dared say a word but the tension could still be felt in the air. The slaves now stared not only at the rider and its giant mount, not only at their master and the coin gleaming brightly in the spidery hands, but at Irene as well. Someone hissed.
Coin clinked as Hisraad quickly deposited the gold into the inside pocket of his vest. The rider called for Irene but she did not move, not at first, and only stared at the man. Reality still hasn’t sunk in yet.
The basket was let go off and it fell onto the ground with a soft thump. The dried weeds rustled within and rolled out as the basket toppled over upon landing. A step was taken towards the rider, then another, and Irene had been halfway towards the man when she felt a tug on her arm. Someone’s hand wrapped around her elbow and stopped the woman in her tracks.
“Your Grace, I have but a few words to say to her. Mere blessings, nothing more.” There was honey laced with the farmer’s words. So sweet and innocent they were. “It will take but a moment. Only a moment, Your Grace.”
Another tug, now much harsher and Hisraad forced Irene to turn around and face him. He smelled of cinnamon and cheap herbs, and of old leather that needed a thorough wash. Hisraad was shorter than Irene, reaching only to her chest, and with the fat long lost, he appeared to be a mere farmer nearing his old age. Wrinkles creased his skin, blemishes appeared under the bloodshot eyes, and his breath carried a scent of cheap liquor. The short beard was streaked with grey.
Those glassy eyes stared at Irene as he held onto her arm, tugging on it until the woman obeyed and bent down to look her – now old – master in the eye.
“Did he see it?” He hissed at her and she could smell the scent of alcohol.
“No.” Irene tugged at the hold but the man held on.
“Do not lie to me. Why else would he have chosen you? Did you tell anyone of it? Did someone else see it and tell him? Confess, wench. This is no coincidence. Does he know of it?” The words were whispers under the man’s breath, quiet enough to only be heard by Irene. But there was a smile tugging on his lips, masking the anger that no doubt boiled within the farmer.
“No.”
It became a habit to check on her gown and the shawl. Secured at the shoulders with leather strings, the gown went up towards Irene’s neck. There was no possible way how one could see the ink hidden beneath the thin cloth, and the shawl was enough to cover any peeking over the collar of the gown curves of black. No one knew of the Mark and even the slaves working on the fields were told that it was but a tattoo, one gotten when Irene was younger and much more prone to stupid and rash decisions. Only Hisraad and his wife, Uma, knew of the true nature of the intricate tattoo sprawling over the woman’s collarbone.
Irene looked at Hisraad with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Something behind the farmer moved and Irene lifted her gaze to look over the man’s shoulder. The curtain moved over one of the windows on the second floor of the house. There, hiding behind the thinning broidered linen, was a figure. It was only a shadow but Irene managed to catch a glimpse of to whom the shadow belonged to. It was a woman, thin and short, with an angular face and a crooked nose. Uma, Hisraad’s wife. The only one who would be more than happy to see Irene leave the care of her husband.
“If he knew of it, he would not have paid you. He would have killed you,” Irene said and tugged at the hold once more, now much harder. Once freed she took a step back from Hisraad. There was anger in the farmer’s eyes, his hands visibly trembled and his right hand curled into a fist. It was a sure sign of a beating, one that made the muscles on Irene’s back ache uncomfortably in pain.
But Hisraad did not move or order the slaves to hold the troublesome woman down as he would go and fetch the whip. Perhaps it was the growing impatience of the dragon rider that stopped the farmer from committing something that he would pay for himself, or maybe it was the proximity of Irene to the dragon to whom no one dared take a step towards, not even Hisraad. Even Irene was reluctant to step towards the dragon, knowing well enough what such beasts were capable of.
Intimately?
Was this the reason why she was bought? To entertain this man’s son during the night? It made the woman doubt the fact that the rider did not know of the Mark on her chest.
As the woman neared the dragon and its rider she glanced around. The horizon was empty, filled with burning desert sands that blew towards the dying field with each gust of wind. The sun was bright and scorching. The sky a bright blue with not a cloud in sight. Hisraad had no guards, not anymore; not since he stopped paying them for the lack of any spare coin to own any sort of guard force to protect his small field. Behind her was the city itself, one that they all could see peeking over the horizon with the tall buildings of stone. And all around was the desert.
Some part of her mind urged the woman to run. Anywhere. But the sane part spoke up, defeating the urge to run and escape as it was pointless. Running into the city would get her caught and sold into slavery once more, or killed. Running into the desert would be a death wish. Where was the nearest settlement? The nearest well or even some oasis where water and food could be found? She did not know. Ever since coming into this land she never had an access to a detailed map and Hisraad, and those before him, never travelled far enough with their slaves in tow to give the slaves a good sense of direction.
Chances were, no matter in which direction she’d run, the dragon, the scales of which resembled glinting amethysts, would either burn the foolish woman alive or see it as an opportunity for a midday snack.
So Irene neared the rider. There was no other choice, after all. “Am I to ride on it?” She looked over the dragon and then the saddle. It would not be surprising that the dragon would carry her in its hind legs or something or other, akin to how a hawk carried a mouse towards its nest. The thought was innerving.
“Your Grace,” Hisraad spoke up as he took a step towards the rider and the beast. “I wish you safe journey. Is there any way how I, or the Malak estate, be of service to His Grace? Perhaps you wish to refill your waterskin? I shall order a servant to fetch you nourishment at once.”
Being a slave had taught them all how to move silently and slowly, no sudden movements that could draw attention to themselves. Irene, without realising it, had also picked up the trait. She stepped aside from the man and joined the row of others who obediently moved aside to not get in the way of the rider as he paced down the row.
A sense of déjà vu tugged at her mind.
This was not the first time that she stood like this, placed before someone of power and money, other slaves at her side, trembling and scared out of their wits. The only difference being that they all were clothed, however scarcely, and there was a dragon standing casually on the field that was tended to but moments ago.
The useless woven basket was still in Irene’s hands, and others around the woman held onto their tools as well, as meagre as they were. No one dared to let go of the items. Someone even still clutched to a stalk of weed.
It was a sorry sight.
Slaves. The word used to address those in the field was not wrong, and yet to hear it felt odd. It still made Irene press her lips tightly and set her jaw so hard it hurt. Yes, it has been two years since slavery had been forced upon her. And yet, to actually hear being called a slave sent shivers running down her spine on spidery legs.
The rider continued to speak and Hisraad replied hesitantly. No wonder, too. Last time a rider had visited Hisraad’s estate, the fields were left burning. Hisraad spoke carefully, addressed the dragon rider with a title fit for a noble or even a royal had this been another nation. Last time Hisraad was too full of himself to know when to still his tongue.
At her side Irene felt a man shift, the shawl over his cropped short hair moved ever so slightly as the man lifted his head to peek at Hisraad. It was easy enough to guess that the others also dared a glance at their master. All were curious to see who would go, who would be bought into a homestead that had coin to sustain the servants working there.
They all heard rumours. The slaves spoke to one another of how those living as servants to the dragon riders having a life better than most. They were fed, clothed, taken care of as much as a slave would ever be. These were rumours, fantasies, but they gave hope to those working under Hisraad. More than once Irene had heard the slaves whisper under their breath as they prayed every night to be bought into the dragon rider’s household. More than once Irene could see a gleam in the eyes of some slaves as they spoke of the life that they were allowed to hope for.
But people talked, they always have, and those guests who stayed in Hisraad’s estate for a day or two spoke of wonders that even Irene had troubles believing in. The rumours were exaggerated, surely.
So while the ones around Irene hoped they’d be bought, she, instead hoped not to be. Living in a household where dragons were kept as pets or even companions? Where there were guards, armed to the teeth? Escape would be a fantasy. To a slave that life would be the best they could ever hope for. And Irene? She clung to freedom still, even if it was foolish.
Purple gleamed in the woman’s vision. She, as the rest of those around her, kept her gaze down. Though she, unlike the rest, chose to lift her eyes and watch the rider pace. Or rather, watch the armour shine in a colour that she so missed and found to be a rare sight in Hisraad’s estate. Irene’s purples were long ago taken from her and sold; the spear was broken, the wood burnt and the blade tip sold to some blacksmith or another to be re-forged into something new. To see purple again was pleasant, even if it was worn by one who did not deserve to clad himself in it.
Not that the rider would ever care for her opinion on the matter. Not that she would ever voice the opinion.
The rider stopped before her and Irene felt her shoulders tense and her breath catch in her throat. He looked her over and Irene held his gaze. The silver of her eyes was cool and vivid against her tanned skin tone, and for a moment only did the colour dim. In that very same moment the calm expression had left her features and her lips pressed tightly, her eyes narrowed as she glanced at the farmer who dared point a finger at her.
Fool!
The following statement nearly made Irene drop the basket right onto the feet of the rider. Instead, her hands held it tighter; so tight her knuckles turned white. The weight of the collar around her neck, the weight and the feeling of which she got used to after months of wearing it, suddenly was more apparent as it rested beneath the folds of the shawl.
Hisraad tried to negotiate, only to be cut off by the dragon’s fire as it emerged from the mouth of the beast per its rider’s command. The heat scared the slaves enough to make them huddle closer together and Irene felt the pressure of someone’s bony shoulder against her own. She, however, did not cover or tremble at the feeling of the air becoming hotter above her as it enveloped her. Neither did she glance at the dragon in fear. Instead, Irene was utterly still and her eyes were focused on Hisraad who still attempted to choke out some words, and was doing a poor job of it.
No wonder, all things considered.
Hisraad gave in, finally, and named his price. The coin was thrown at him and all watched as the man stumbled forward, scrambling up to his feet to catch the strings of coins before they fell onto the dirty soil. His clothing slapped in the wind, far too big for his frail figure, the vest turned to the side and the headpiece slipped down farther down his oily hair. Beads of sweat gleamed on his forehead and temples, and his bloodshot black eyes bulged as he caught the coin and stared at the gold.
No one dared say a word but the tension could still be felt in the air. The slaves now stared not only at the rider and its giant mount, not only at their master and the coin gleaming brightly in the spidery hands, but at Irene as well. Someone hissed.
Coin clinked as Hisraad quickly deposited the gold into the inside pocket of his vest. The rider called for Irene but she did not move, not at first, and only stared at the man. Reality still hasn’t sunk in yet.
The basket was let go off and it fell onto the ground with a soft thump. The dried weeds rustled within and rolled out as the basket toppled over upon landing. A step was taken towards the rider, then another, and Irene had been halfway towards the man when she felt a tug on her arm. Someone’s hand wrapped around her elbow and stopped the woman in her tracks.
“Your Grace, I have but a few words to say to her. Mere blessings, nothing more.” There was honey laced with the farmer’s words. So sweet and innocent they were. “It will take but a moment. Only a moment, Your Grace.”
Another tug, now much harsher and Hisraad forced Irene to turn around and face him. He smelled of cinnamon and cheap herbs, and of old leather that needed a thorough wash. Hisraad was shorter than Irene, reaching only to her chest, and with the fat long lost, he appeared to be a mere farmer nearing his old age. Wrinkles creased his skin, blemishes appeared under the bloodshot eyes, and his breath carried a scent of cheap liquor. The short beard was streaked with grey.
Those glassy eyes stared at Irene as he held onto her arm, tugging on it until the woman obeyed and bent down to look her – now old – master in the eye.
“Did he see it?” He hissed at her and she could smell the scent of alcohol.
“No.” Irene tugged at the hold but the man held on.
“Do not lie to me. Why else would he have chosen you? Did you tell anyone of it? Did someone else see it and tell him? Confess, wench. This is no coincidence. Does he know of it?” The words were whispers under the man’s breath, quiet enough to only be heard by Irene. But there was a smile tugging on his lips, masking the anger that no doubt boiled within the farmer.
“No.”
It became a habit to check on her gown and the shawl. Secured at the shoulders with leather strings, the gown went up towards Irene’s neck. There was no possible way how one could see the ink hidden beneath the thin cloth, and the shawl was enough to cover any peeking over the collar of the gown curves of black. No one knew of the Mark and even the slaves working on the fields were told that it was but a tattoo, one gotten when Irene was younger and much more prone to stupid and rash decisions. Only Hisraad and his wife, Uma, knew of the true nature of the intricate tattoo sprawling over the woman’s collarbone.
Irene looked at Hisraad with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Something behind the farmer moved and Irene lifted her gaze to look over the man’s shoulder. The curtain moved over one of the windows on the second floor of the house. There, hiding behind the thinning broidered linen, was a figure. It was only a shadow but Irene managed to catch a glimpse of to whom the shadow belonged to. It was a woman, thin and short, with an angular face and a crooked nose. Uma, Hisraad’s wife. The only one who would be more than happy to see Irene leave the care of her husband.
“If he knew of it, he would not have paid you. He would have killed you,” Irene said and tugged at the hold once more, now much harder. Once freed she took a step back from Hisraad. There was anger in the farmer’s eyes, his hands visibly trembled and his right hand curled into a fist. It was a sure sign of a beating, one that made the muscles on Irene’s back ache uncomfortably in pain.
But Hisraad did not move or order the slaves to hold the troublesome woman down as he would go and fetch the whip. Perhaps it was the growing impatience of the dragon rider that stopped the farmer from committing something that he would pay for himself, or maybe it was the proximity of Irene to the dragon to whom no one dared take a step towards, not even Hisraad. Even Irene was reluctant to step towards the dragon, knowing well enough what such beasts were capable of.
Intimately?
Was this the reason why she was bought? To entertain this man’s son during the night? It made the woman doubt the fact that the rider did not know of the Mark on her chest.
As the woman neared the dragon and its rider she glanced around. The horizon was empty, filled with burning desert sands that blew towards the dying field with each gust of wind. The sun was bright and scorching. The sky a bright blue with not a cloud in sight. Hisraad had no guards, not anymore; not since he stopped paying them for the lack of any spare coin to own any sort of guard force to protect his small field. Behind her was the city itself, one that they all could see peeking over the horizon with the tall buildings of stone. And all around was the desert.
Some part of her mind urged the woman to run. Anywhere. But the sane part spoke up, defeating the urge to run and escape as it was pointless. Running into the city would get her caught and sold into slavery once more, or killed. Running into the desert would be a death wish. Where was the nearest settlement? The nearest well or even some oasis where water and food could be found? She did not know. Ever since coming into this land she never had an access to a detailed map and Hisraad, and those before him, never travelled far enough with their slaves in tow to give the slaves a good sense of direction.
Chances were, no matter in which direction she’d run, the dragon, the scales of which resembled glinting amethysts, would either burn the foolish woman alive or see it as an opportunity for a midday snack.
So Irene neared the rider. There was no other choice, after all. “Am I to ride on it?” She looked over the dragon and then the saddle. It would not be surprising that the dragon would carry her in its hind legs or something or other, akin to how a hawk carried a mouse towards its nest. The thought was innerving.
“Your Grace,” Hisraad spoke up as he took a step towards the rider and the beast. “I wish you safe journey. Is there any way how I, or the Malak estate, be of service to His Grace? Perhaps you wish to refill your waterskin? I shall order a servant to fetch you nourishment at once.”
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Balin Passi
Balin raised an eyebrow at the request of the farmer but said nothing. He was sure that the farmer knew what he could do, what he was allowed to do. There was no law binding the dragon riders to turn in troublemakers. There was no law binding the dragon riders to consider who was truly guilty. To Balin, any man who could not feed all in his household or look after them well were guilty of greed and selfishness and those crimes could not be left unpunished. He examined his nails while he waited, feeling the gaze of a few slaves on him. He pretended to be entirely interested in his nails, though he let his free hand tap on the hilt of his sword as a reminder that he was still present and growing impatient.
The locals seemed to regard them as gods, almost untouchable if not highly dangerous and fickle creatures. He knew that their relative benevolence to their households made them ideal to slaves living in cruelty and to the rest, they seemed to be people without law. In a way, they were. After all, law dictated that the exchange of slaves should be done on paper as well as by coin but who would dare tell Balin that his slaves were not his if they had the proper mark around their neck? Who would dare tell a dragon rider they could not take a slave from his land if a dragon, hungry and eager to consume the rotten, stood nearby?
Balin had set on fire an individual or two who had resisted past the point of sense, wealthy commanders who thought their own prowess in battle unbeatable. They thought because they wielded a sword, because they marched underneath a dragon, they could not be touched.
They were fools.
When the slave finally stepped towards him and his saddle, Balin looked up and examined the farmer one last time.
He didn't like Hisraad.
Granted, Balin didn't like most farmers. They were all the groveling type if they were poor and if they weren't poor, they were puffed up birds that thought their feathers shiny but truly dull in light of real dragons whose scales gleamed in the sun and billowed fire.
"I have no need for you," Balin said, waving a dismissive hand, "nor the rest of your household. I came to buy a slave, didn't I? And I have achieved my goal. There is no need for any more of your talk. Consider our business, if you would like to call it that to make you feel better, adjourned."
He turned to the slave. "Yes," he responded to her question. "You shall sit in the front and I shall sit in the back. You've ridden horses, have you not?"
The locals seemed to regard them as gods, almost untouchable if not highly dangerous and fickle creatures. He knew that their relative benevolence to their households made them ideal to slaves living in cruelty and to the rest, they seemed to be people without law. In a way, they were. After all, law dictated that the exchange of slaves should be done on paper as well as by coin but who would dare tell Balin that his slaves were not his if they had the proper mark around their neck? Who would dare tell a dragon rider they could not take a slave from his land if a dragon, hungry and eager to consume the rotten, stood nearby?
Balin had set on fire an individual or two who had resisted past the point of sense, wealthy commanders who thought their own prowess in battle unbeatable. They thought because they wielded a sword, because they marched underneath a dragon, they could not be touched.
They were fools.
When the slave finally stepped towards him and his saddle, Balin looked up and examined the farmer one last time.
He didn't like Hisraad.
Granted, Balin didn't like most farmers. They were all the groveling type if they were poor and if they weren't poor, they were puffed up birds that thought their feathers shiny but truly dull in light of real dragons whose scales gleamed in the sun and billowed fire.
"I have no need for you," Balin said, waving a dismissive hand, "nor the rest of your household. I came to buy a slave, didn't I? And I have achieved my goal. There is no need for any more of your talk. Consider our business, if you would like to call it that to make you feel better, adjourned."
He turned to the slave. "Yes," he responded to her question. "You shall sit in the front and I shall sit in the back. You've ridden horses, have you not?"
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
Hisraad’s shoulders visibly slumped at the reply that he surely did not want to hear. Not needed. Not even some water or food, not even a cool tea or a company of man who was barely educated but could provide decent conversation nonetheless. The way how Hisraad puffed out his chest had changed, his shoulders jerked at the refusal of his hospitality and his eyes were hollow for a moment only. He was standing a few feet away from Irene, his back inclined forward and his hands intertwined. For a moment his lips parted, his chest raised in words that never came out. Hisraad was silent.
“Very well,” the farmer finally said as he bowed his head to the rider, “as you wish, Your Grace. It has been a great pleasure doing business with you, however small.”
The bow deepened and then he raised his eyes to look at Irene from beneath thinning eyebrows. There was something akin to anger in those eyes of his, anger and annoyance. Irene did not see the stare but felt it as it stabbed her in the back like icy needles.
Cautiously the woman neared the dragon. Under the long skirt of her gown her knees were bent ever so slightly, feet parted in a way that would allow her to jump away if needed. It was a habit, a self-defence mechanism drilled into her muscles years ago. By the time the rider replied to her question Irene had been standing so close to the dragon that if she so wished she could touch its scales.
“A dragon is scarcely a horse,” she said quietly under her breath, her voice hoarse and dry. She looked up at the beast and the saddle.
To compare a horse and a dragon was similar to comparing a slave and a royal.
“Yes, I’ve ridden horses before, My Lord,” she corrected herself quickly enough as she looked at the rider.
It had been over two years since she’s last been on a horse. Since she’s last sent the mount into a fast gallop across a steppe so far and wide that it was impossible to see where it begun and where it ended. Since she’s last felt the wind hit her hard in the face as the horse moved beneath her, its legs strong as they carried its rider with immense speed across the land. Back then, Irene considered herself to be one of the best riders. A fast one, with a horse strong and obedient.
But it was years ago, and to compare riding a horse to riding a dragon was impossible in the woman’s mind.
The dragon – Malliah, was it? – had positioned itself low enough to the ground for its rider to reach towards a ladder leading to the saddle. Irene stopped before the dragon and reached down to pull up the skirt of her gown to her mid-thigh and then tied it there into a knot. Some scars were exposed this way, older ones that had healed years ago into thin lines of lighter skin. Along with the scars were the bruises, in particular one over the right thigh. A spot of black and brown it was, as large as a fist.
The woman hesitated for a moment before she reached towards the ladder and began climbing up. Careful not to touch the scales of the dragon beneath the ladder, Irene climbed up onto the saddle.
Curious to see one of their own riding a dragon the slaves had shifted as silently as before, moving in unison. They watched Irene position herself at the front of the saddle, her back straight and hands holding the front of the saddle. Hisraad watched as well while biting his lower lip. From across the field Irene could see Uma and her daughter stare out the window behind the curtains of which they were hiding but a short while ago. Both shared matching expressions – fear and awe, though Uma’s lips were curved into a half smile. The woman was surely ecstatic to see Irene be bought out of the household.
Irene spared a hand to reach up towards the shawl around her head. The sun had been beating down on her exposed dark hair. The shawl was pulled up once more and roped around her neck loosely to keep the dirtied piece of fabric in place.
Thankfully the dragon did not turn its head around to breathe fire onto the slave on its back.
“We wish you a safe journey, Your Grace.” Hisraad bowed once again. Other slaves had bowed as well, falling onto the ground to press their foreheads against the soil and arched their backs in respect.
While Hisraad spoke to the rider Irene looked down at the farmer. From her spot, the man appeared much smaller now. Clad in what was left of his finery, Hisraad was an almost laughable sight. Maybe it was his size that brought Hisraad to be violent to his servants, that made him punish those working in his estate for the smallest of mistakes. Or maybe it was the assumption that beating those beneath him in social status somehow brought his own to be of more importance.
On the other side, hidden from the sight of the rider, Hisraad and the rest of the slaves, Irene shifted a foot against the dragon’s side. Just to see if the beast would respond to the prod like a horse would. Not that she wished to truly send the creature into a slight, but…it was a valiant attempt. One she would be a fool to pass up on.
“May she serve you well, for she is a troublesome one. Though I am sure His Grace will have no trouble reining her in,” Hisraad continued.
“Very well,” the farmer finally said as he bowed his head to the rider, “as you wish, Your Grace. It has been a great pleasure doing business with you, however small.”
The bow deepened and then he raised his eyes to look at Irene from beneath thinning eyebrows. There was something akin to anger in those eyes of his, anger and annoyance. Irene did not see the stare but felt it as it stabbed her in the back like icy needles.
Cautiously the woman neared the dragon. Under the long skirt of her gown her knees were bent ever so slightly, feet parted in a way that would allow her to jump away if needed. It was a habit, a self-defence mechanism drilled into her muscles years ago. By the time the rider replied to her question Irene had been standing so close to the dragon that if she so wished she could touch its scales.
“A dragon is scarcely a horse,” she said quietly under her breath, her voice hoarse and dry. She looked up at the beast and the saddle.
To compare a horse and a dragon was similar to comparing a slave and a royal.
“Yes, I’ve ridden horses before, My Lord,” she corrected herself quickly enough as she looked at the rider.
It had been over two years since she’s last been on a horse. Since she’s last sent the mount into a fast gallop across a steppe so far and wide that it was impossible to see where it begun and where it ended. Since she’s last felt the wind hit her hard in the face as the horse moved beneath her, its legs strong as they carried its rider with immense speed across the land. Back then, Irene considered herself to be one of the best riders. A fast one, with a horse strong and obedient.
But it was years ago, and to compare riding a horse to riding a dragon was impossible in the woman’s mind.
The dragon – Malliah, was it? – had positioned itself low enough to the ground for its rider to reach towards a ladder leading to the saddle. Irene stopped before the dragon and reached down to pull up the skirt of her gown to her mid-thigh and then tied it there into a knot. Some scars were exposed this way, older ones that had healed years ago into thin lines of lighter skin. Along with the scars were the bruises, in particular one over the right thigh. A spot of black and brown it was, as large as a fist.
The woman hesitated for a moment before she reached towards the ladder and began climbing up. Careful not to touch the scales of the dragon beneath the ladder, Irene climbed up onto the saddle.
Curious to see one of their own riding a dragon the slaves had shifted as silently as before, moving in unison. They watched Irene position herself at the front of the saddle, her back straight and hands holding the front of the saddle. Hisraad watched as well while biting his lower lip. From across the field Irene could see Uma and her daughter stare out the window behind the curtains of which they were hiding but a short while ago. Both shared matching expressions – fear and awe, though Uma’s lips were curved into a half smile. The woman was surely ecstatic to see Irene be bought out of the household.
Irene spared a hand to reach up towards the shawl around her head. The sun had been beating down on her exposed dark hair. The shawl was pulled up once more and roped around her neck loosely to keep the dirtied piece of fabric in place.
Thankfully the dragon did not turn its head around to breathe fire onto the slave on its back.
“We wish you a safe journey, Your Grace.” Hisraad bowed once again. Other slaves had bowed as well, falling onto the ground to press their foreheads against the soil and arched their backs in respect.
While Hisraad spoke to the rider Irene looked down at the farmer. From her spot, the man appeared much smaller now. Clad in what was left of his finery, Hisraad was an almost laughable sight. Maybe it was his size that brought Hisraad to be violent to his servants, that made him punish those working in his estate for the smallest of mistakes. Or maybe it was the assumption that beating those beneath him in social status somehow brought his own to be of more importance.
On the other side, hidden from the sight of the rider, Hisraad and the rest of the slaves, Irene shifted a foot against the dragon’s side. Just to see if the beast would respond to the prod like a horse would. Not that she wished to truly send the creature into a slight, but…it was a valiant attempt. One she would be a fool to pass up on.
“May she serve you well, for she is a troublesome one. Though I am sure His Grace will have no trouble reining her in,” Hisraad continued.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Balin Passi
"Then you know how to sit on a dragon," Balin said calmly. He was called "sir" in his own household by the slaves and servants, puttering around doing their chores. Occasionally, one would forget and then fumble for an apology if they were young. If they were older, they'd simply go about their way, knowing that so long as their work was fine, they would not be punished. In his lifetime, Balin had only had to sell away three servants for being incompetent. His punishments, he thought, were mild. He'd simply make the individual go without food or take nighttime tasks when it wasn't their time. He'd make sure they realized that their errors had consequences, ones that could be repeated if they did not learn quickly. He did not harm his slaves or servants, as that would make them useless to him. And as the master of the house, Balin was expected to keep it running smoothly. If a slave or servant was injured, they could no longer work and a hand out of the running would mean that all the others would have to take up their task, forcing onto them a burden they had not wanted or predicted. To Balin, that would harm the entire household, rather than just the slaves. He'd be stuck arranging schedules, dealing with individuals that were tired and were not working as efficiently as possible. And he was a busy man, after all.
He noticed a small bruise above the woman's knee when she lifted up her linen clothing and turned to Hisraad with an arched eyebrow.
One of the only laws he followed was the law that a master had to take care of his entire household if he expected it to take care of him. One of the only laws the dragon riders openly enforced was the fact that a master, if cruel, was to be punished.
But Balin had already taken from the man a prized slave, a prized pair of hands. And, as he gazed back towards the house and the figures standing in it, it would simply be impolite to burn alive a man in front of his family.
That, he had first hand experience with.
"Do you know, farmer, what some of the laws we dragon riders live by?" Balin said coolly. Before allowing the farmer to respond, he said, "We protect the innocent and care for the household. Do you know, farmer, what one of the cornerstones of being a dragon rider is?"
He allowed only a second for Hisraad to stare at him.
"To remain honorable. And honor is found through punishing those that break our laws."
He took a step towards Hisraad, who seemed to be shaking as he stared up at Balin, who towered over him in height and stature and power. There was the sound of grating metal as Balin drew his sword, allowing it to gleam in the light for a second. He placed the tip of it on the forehead of the farmer.
"Do you wish to know what our punishments are for those that break our own laws?" he asked in a low voice.
A bead of blood appeared where the sword was, running down the farmer's forehead alongside the sweat that had appeared since Balin had begun speaking.
He retracted his sword.
"I will tell you the next time we meet. With my words or with my sword and dragon, depending on what path you will take. Take care, farmer."
With that, he turned and marched back towards Malliah. He swung himself up in three stretches and plopped down behind the slave. Malliah grunted and stood up at her full height, gazing down at the farmer and at the slaves, snorting slightly as if to follow up on her master's threat. Balin nudged the sides of the beast and she spread open her wings, a gust of warm air billowing past them as she did so, and she lept upwards into the blue sky.
"What is your name?" Balin asked the slave as he tapped her left side three times with the hell of his boot, forcing her to turn.
He noticed a small bruise above the woman's knee when she lifted up her linen clothing and turned to Hisraad with an arched eyebrow.
One of the only laws he followed was the law that a master had to take care of his entire household if he expected it to take care of him. One of the only laws the dragon riders openly enforced was the fact that a master, if cruel, was to be punished.
But Balin had already taken from the man a prized slave, a prized pair of hands. And, as he gazed back towards the house and the figures standing in it, it would simply be impolite to burn alive a man in front of his family.
That, he had first hand experience with.
"Do you know, farmer, what some of the laws we dragon riders live by?" Balin said coolly. Before allowing the farmer to respond, he said, "We protect the innocent and care for the household. Do you know, farmer, what one of the cornerstones of being a dragon rider is?"
He allowed only a second for Hisraad to stare at him.
"To remain honorable. And honor is found through punishing those that break our laws."
He took a step towards Hisraad, who seemed to be shaking as he stared up at Balin, who towered over him in height and stature and power. There was the sound of grating metal as Balin drew his sword, allowing it to gleam in the light for a second. He placed the tip of it on the forehead of the farmer.
"Do you wish to know what our punishments are for those that break our own laws?" he asked in a low voice.
A bead of blood appeared where the sword was, running down the farmer's forehead alongside the sweat that had appeared since Balin had begun speaking.
He retracted his sword.
"I will tell you the next time we meet. With my words or with my sword and dragon, depending on what path you will take. Take care, farmer."
With that, he turned and marched back towards Malliah. He swung himself up in three stretches and plopped down behind the slave. Malliah grunted and stood up at her full height, gazing down at the farmer and at the slaves, snorting slightly as if to follow up on her master's threat. Balin nudged the sides of the beast and she spread open her wings, a gust of warm air billowing past them as she did so, and she lept upwards into the blue sky.
"What is your name?" Balin asked the slave as he tapped her left side three times with the hell of his boot, forcing her to turn.
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
To see Hisraad be humiliated was both a pleasant and a sad sight. The man all but soiled his breeches when the rider spoke to him, and would have surely fallen into the puddle of his own making if he was not frozen in place by the tip of the man’s sword as it pressed against the farmer’s forehead.
The slaves lifted their eyes only once to look at what was happening and ducked quickly back towards the ground in fear of being punished as well, of being cut down by the razor sharp blade of the rider. Even they could hear the underlining threat in the rider’s words, they could hear how cold his words had gotten and what promises they carried. None felt any sympathy for Hisraad as the bead of sweat slid down his face now drained of colour.
All expected Hisraad to be cut down right there and then. Some might have even hoped for it. But all realized the consequences of the farmer’s death – the land would be bought by someone else, the slaves either killed or sold once again to a master possibly much harsher than Hisraad, and his family could follow suit and join their servants in a life of hard labour.
From her spot on the dragon Irene could see the fear in Hisraad’s eyes. She could see how the slaves trembled as they still bowed on the ground, afraid to watch their master be cut down by a rider. In the house, Uma had raised a hand to cover her mouth that was parted in a silent scream, and her other hand forcefully covered the eyes of her child who clutched the fabric of her mother’s dress with tiny hands.
While they all watched in shock or refused to look at all, Irene looked down at Hisraad with an expression of utter calm, the silver of her eyes cold and dull. The man deserved this. Even if he was not cut down, he deserved the threats, to be taught a lesson long in the making.
But Hisraad’s head did not roll. The slaves were surprised; his family was surprised. All looked at Hisraad with wide eyes, their faces drained of all colour and the cold sweat gleaning beneath the sun’s scorching rays now an aftereffect of shock. Even Irene gaped at the rider. There was a flash of colour in the house’s window as Uma stepped away from the narrow slit of the opening and hurried away from it, surely heading towards her husband. Hisraad had fallen onto the ground, his knees too weak to support him, and he reached with trembling fingers towards the blood on his forehead. Once the tips of his fingers touched the blood he pulled his hand away and stared at the tips of his fingers in shock, as if not believing that the blood was, indeed, his. Then his hand moved towards his neck, as if to make sure that it was still attached to his head.
When the rider positioned himself behind Irene on the saddle, Hisraad had leaned on his hands, the palms pressed against the ground, and stared at the ground, panting. It seemed that the reality had finally sunk in. He was alive after staring Death right in the eye.
Irene had looked down at Hisraad when the dragon spread open its wings. There was barely anything to hold onto, and the woman chose to grab onto the front part of the saddle. She held onto it for dear life when the wind current carried the dragon up as it leapt into the air, lifting its riders high into the skies. The woman leaned forward involuntarily to accommodate for the lack of balance. Who knew that being able to ride a horse would pay off while riding a dragon. Her breath was caught in her throat and she winced, closing her eyes to protect herself from the hot wind.
Once they were up in the air and the dragon moved smoothly beneath the saddle, Irene straightened. One hand held onto the saddle, while the other reached up to keep the shawl around her head in place as the wind blew hard against it, threatening to push it down once again. Her legs pressed hard against the creature’s sides. When Irene looked down, her lips parted in a gasp and her eyes scanned the lands spreading far and wide.
The heat mattered little. The wind hit the woman in the face with a smooth hot current, making the loose cloth of her gown flap around her thin frame. The scenery was breath taking. The desert spread around them in a blanket of bright sands, dotted with fields of gold and green. Houses stuck out like rocks from the ground, some big and others smaller, some clustered into estates like Hisraad’s manor, and others mere hovels. People moved about like bright dots of white, their linens reflecting the bright sun above. Farther ahead the mountains rose high above the clouds. There was so much to see.
So this is what it meant to fly.
For the first time in the past two years Irene had forgotten about the presence of the leather collar on her neck. She had forgotten what she was forced to become. She had forgotten about the rider positioned behind her.
But he spoke to her, his voice steady and loud enough to be heard over the wind current as the dragon rose higher and higher.
“Irene,” the woman replied, her voice straining as she tried to speak louder.
It was unbelievably hard to lift her gaze from the ground and turn to look at the rider behind her. When she looked at him the man would be able to see a gleam in her eye, one that was not present when she was still on the ground, tending to Hisraad’s field. The gleam was bright and alive, it made the silver of her eyes shine and reflect the bright sunlight.
“My name is Irene, My Lord,” she corrected herself and looked away from the man to once again shift her gaze and watch the land beneath them move.
Fields, estates, people – these bright spots of colour were beautiful in their own way, colouring the golden desert sands as they shifted. From above it all seemed like a large sea of gold where the waves were of sand, sweeping and changing with each gust of wind. Without fearing for her own life, Irene leaned to the side ever so slightly while still keeping a secure hold on the saddle. The height did not bother her in the least and it was apparent.
Before she only watched the dragons fly overhead. The mighty beasts carried their riders with ease as they crossed the skies with great speed. Like birds they were, giant and beautiful and gleaming in the bright sunlight. They were the epitome of freedom. To actually ride one, to become a rider of a dragon even if for a short while…Irene felt the hope of being free once again grow in her mind, spreading warmth through her heart that had turned cold a year ago.
The slaves lifted their eyes only once to look at what was happening and ducked quickly back towards the ground in fear of being punished as well, of being cut down by the razor sharp blade of the rider. Even they could hear the underlining threat in the rider’s words, they could hear how cold his words had gotten and what promises they carried. None felt any sympathy for Hisraad as the bead of sweat slid down his face now drained of colour.
All expected Hisraad to be cut down right there and then. Some might have even hoped for it. But all realized the consequences of the farmer’s death – the land would be bought by someone else, the slaves either killed or sold once again to a master possibly much harsher than Hisraad, and his family could follow suit and join their servants in a life of hard labour.
From her spot on the dragon Irene could see the fear in Hisraad’s eyes. She could see how the slaves trembled as they still bowed on the ground, afraid to watch their master be cut down by a rider. In the house, Uma had raised a hand to cover her mouth that was parted in a silent scream, and her other hand forcefully covered the eyes of her child who clutched the fabric of her mother’s dress with tiny hands.
While they all watched in shock or refused to look at all, Irene looked down at Hisraad with an expression of utter calm, the silver of her eyes cold and dull. The man deserved this. Even if he was not cut down, he deserved the threats, to be taught a lesson long in the making.
But Hisraad’s head did not roll. The slaves were surprised; his family was surprised. All looked at Hisraad with wide eyes, their faces drained of all colour and the cold sweat gleaning beneath the sun’s scorching rays now an aftereffect of shock. Even Irene gaped at the rider. There was a flash of colour in the house’s window as Uma stepped away from the narrow slit of the opening and hurried away from it, surely heading towards her husband. Hisraad had fallen onto the ground, his knees too weak to support him, and he reached with trembling fingers towards the blood on his forehead. Once the tips of his fingers touched the blood he pulled his hand away and stared at the tips of his fingers in shock, as if not believing that the blood was, indeed, his. Then his hand moved towards his neck, as if to make sure that it was still attached to his head.
When the rider positioned himself behind Irene on the saddle, Hisraad had leaned on his hands, the palms pressed against the ground, and stared at the ground, panting. It seemed that the reality had finally sunk in. He was alive after staring Death right in the eye.
Irene had looked down at Hisraad when the dragon spread open its wings. There was barely anything to hold onto, and the woman chose to grab onto the front part of the saddle. She held onto it for dear life when the wind current carried the dragon up as it leapt into the air, lifting its riders high into the skies. The woman leaned forward involuntarily to accommodate for the lack of balance. Who knew that being able to ride a horse would pay off while riding a dragon. Her breath was caught in her throat and she winced, closing her eyes to protect herself from the hot wind.
Once they were up in the air and the dragon moved smoothly beneath the saddle, Irene straightened. One hand held onto the saddle, while the other reached up to keep the shawl around her head in place as the wind blew hard against it, threatening to push it down once again. Her legs pressed hard against the creature’s sides. When Irene looked down, her lips parted in a gasp and her eyes scanned the lands spreading far and wide.
The heat mattered little. The wind hit the woman in the face with a smooth hot current, making the loose cloth of her gown flap around her thin frame. The scenery was breath taking. The desert spread around them in a blanket of bright sands, dotted with fields of gold and green. Houses stuck out like rocks from the ground, some big and others smaller, some clustered into estates like Hisraad’s manor, and others mere hovels. People moved about like bright dots of white, their linens reflecting the bright sun above. Farther ahead the mountains rose high above the clouds. There was so much to see.
So this is what it meant to fly.
For the first time in the past two years Irene had forgotten about the presence of the leather collar on her neck. She had forgotten what she was forced to become. She had forgotten about the rider positioned behind her.
But he spoke to her, his voice steady and loud enough to be heard over the wind current as the dragon rose higher and higher.
“Irene,” the woman replied, her voice straining as she tried to speak louder.
It was unbelievably hard to lift her gaze from the ground and turn to look at the rider behind her. When she looked at him the man would be able to see a gleam in her eye, one that was not present when she was still on the ground, tending to Hisraad’s field. The gleam was bright and alive, it made the silver of her eyes shine and reflect the bright sunlight.
“My name is Irene, My Lord,” she corrected herself and looked away from the man to once again shift her gaze and watch the land beneath them move.
Fields, estates, people – these bright spots of colour were beautiful in their own way, colouring the golden desert sands as they shifted. From above it all seemed like a large sea of gold where the waves were of sand, sweeping and changing with each gust of wind. Without fearing for her own life, Irene leaned to the side ever so slightly while still keeping a secure hold on the saddle. The height did not bother her in the least and it was apparent.
Before she only watched the dragons fly overhead. The mighty beasts carried their riders with ease as they crossed the skies with great speed. Like birds they were, giant and beautiful and gleaming in the bright sunlight. They were the epitome of freedom. To actually ride one, to become a rider of a dragon even if for a short while…Irene felt the hope of being free once again grow in her mind, spreading warmth through her heart that had turned cold a year ago.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Balin Passi
"Irene," Balin said, as if contemplating the name. It was not one that he knew of, not one that he had heard before. It was one that he did not quite recognize but was sure was from somewhere. Perhaps it came from the east, or the west. Perhaps it came from past the mountains or across the sea.
Either way, it was something that he had not heard before and if he had, it had been long forgotten.
The warmth of the sun was welcomed in the cold rush of the wind and Balin stared out into the deep desert, searching for the towering building that was his own home. He had several other dragons to look after, after all, and they would be as anxious to see him as he was to get home. The runs were pleasant, sure, and an opportunity to stretch the wings of the great beast that he flew, but it was still a cumbersome duty. While many refuted it and instead stayed within their homes, Balin made the choice to travel out, to actually view the landscape and the people and occasionally intervene, as he had that day.
As he watched the rolling sand move by underneath his dragon, he thought, not for the first time, about how lucky it was that he was born to be a dragon rider. He had the sky within reach and the sun beside him. He had the flames of a beast that many could not dream of having by his side, in fourfold! He did not toil the fields, he did not clean the bathhouses, he was the master. He was the king.
History had told him that good kings were remembered more than bad kings and he had made it his life goal to be a good rider, a good master, a good father, husband. Balin would be remembered as an honorable man.
But honorable men still have enemies and honorable men still had troubles.
As they flew, the heat beating down on them and the blue sky all around, there was a sharp crack, followed by two more. Something flew towards the dragon, towards its rider and sank into his skull, blood splattering against the armor. He did not have time to think, time to react as the world faded and he thought how thankful he was that his son was alive and well.
Malliah had even less. She had her rider against her saddle, nudging her this way and that, a comfortable weight one second and then the next, he was slumped to the side, pushing her one way. She turned, obeying him when she realized that the weight had not let up and that the coppery smell of blood was beginning to rise.
The roar that erupted from her mouth was shortly followed by flame and the sound caused most on the ground to turn and look as they watched the beast twist in the ear, eyes wide and confused. The weight did not shift and the command did not stop and Malliah began to panic, her wings beating faster and faster, churning up air as she struggled to comprehend the pointless command, causing her to turn in circles. After a few more seconds of pointless flying, she turned towards the place she would always be commanded back to, diving towards it without any care for the other person on her back. She bellowed out shouts of grief and anguish to the four other slumbering bodies, who picked themselves up and snapped at one another, their own heads twisting and turning and flames spewing from their mouths as they struggled to understand what their brethren was saying. The servants that had been tending to them yelped in surprise, staggering back as Malliah landed, her wings still beating and kicking up the sand that was around their pen and her bellows not quieting. Servants stumbled about and vases smashed and other riders staggered out to see the chaos.
It took one shocked shout of "Blood!" for the chaos to pause.
It took a glance at the body, slumped over another and oozing something red for the chaos to start again.
The servants surged forward as Malliah continued to bellow, her tail lashing back and forth, her head turned towards the sky as she pitched back. A few older servants finally made it to the body of the dragon, throwing chains over her neck and her tail and her limbs to try and keep her still. They reached for the corpse first, pulling it off in a mass of confusion and sorrow.
Irene was forgotten in the chaos for a moment until someone noticed and cried out, "Killer!"
Hands reached out to seize her, to grab her and drag her. Servants shouted at one another and the dragons bellowed, kicking up dust with their wings and their tails and spewing fire at the sky in some strange ritual of grief. Other dragon riders could be heard running towards the estate, their swords clinking against their armor.
Irene was dragged into a room with smooth stone floors and walls, where there was only a wooden chair. The hands shoved her into it before the bodies that were part of them stumbled back out.
Either way, it was something that he had not heard before and if he had, it had been long forgotten.
The warmth of the sun was welcomed in the cold rush of the wind and Balin stared out into the deep desert, searching for the towering building that was his own home. He had several other dragons to look after, after all, and they would be as anxious to see him as he was to get home. The runs were pleasant, sure, and an opportunity to stretch the wings of the great beast that he flew, but it was still a cumbersome duty. While many refuted it and instead stayed within their homes, Balin made the choice to travel out, to actually view the landscape and the people and occasionally intervene, as he had that day.
As he watched the rolling sand move by underneath his dragon, he thought, not for the first time, about how lucky it was that he was born to be a dragon rider. He had the sky within reach and the sun beside him. He had the flames of a beast that many could not dream of having by his side, in fourfold! He did not toil the fields, he did not clean the bathhouses, he was the master. He was the king.
History had told him that good kings were remembered more than bad kings and he had made it his life goal to be a good rider, a good master, a good father, husband. Balin would be remembered as an honorable man.
But honorable men still have enemies and honorable men still had troubles.
As they flew, the heat beating down on them and the blue sky all around, there was a sharp crack, followed by two more. Something flew towards the dragon, towards its rider and sank into his skull, blood splattering against the armor. He did not have time to think, time to react as the world faded and he thought how thankful he was that his son was alive and well.
Malliah had even less. She had her rider against her saddle, nudging her this way and that, a comfortable weight one second and then the next, he was slumped to the side, pushing her one way. She turned, obeying him when she realized that the weight had not let up and that the coppery smell of blood was beginning to rise.
The roar that erupted from her mouth was shortly followed by flame and the sound caused most on the ground to turn and look as they watched the beast twist in the ear, eyes wide and confused. The weight did not shift and the command did not stop and Malliah began to panic, her wings beating faster and faster, churning up air as she struggled to comprehend the pointless command, causing her to turn in circles. After a few more seconds of pointless flying, she turned towards the place she would always be commanded back to, diving towards it without any care for the other person on her back. She bellowed out shouts of grief and anguish to the four other slumbering bodies, who picked themselves up and snapped at one another, their own heads twisting and turning and flames spewing from their mouths as they struggled to understand what their brethren was saying. The servants that had been tending to them yelped in surprise, staggering back as Malliah landed, her wings still beating and kicking up the sand that was around their pen and her bellows not quieting. Servants stumbled about and vases smashed and other riders staggered out to see the chaos.
It took one shocked shout of "Blood!" for the chaos to pause.
It took a glance at the body, slumped over another and oozing something red for the chaos to start again.
The servants surged forward as Malliah continued to bellow, her tail lashing back and forth, her head turned towards the sky as she pitched back. A few older servants finally made it to the body of the dragon, throwing chains over her neck and her tail and her limbs to try and keep her still. They reached for the corpse first, pulling it off in a mass of confusion and sorrow.
Irene was forgotten in the chaos for a moment until someone noticed and cried out, "Killer!"
Hands reached out to seize her, to grab her and drag her. Servants shouted at one another and the dragons bellowed, kicking up dust with their wings and their tails and spewing fire at the sky in some strange ritual of grief. Other dragon riders could be heard running towards the estate, their swords clinking against their armor.
Irene was dragged into a room with smooth stone floors and walls, where there was only a wooden chair. The hands shoved her into it before the bodies that were part of them stumbled back out.
Zyrell Makhai
The door swung open the next moment and a man strode inwards, his head held high and his sword bouncing by his hip. The symbol his breastplate was that of a sword, dripping with red blood over a shield made of black iron. He stared down at the individual seated in front of him.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What business do you have flying a dragon? What business do you have here?"
Before she could answer, the man crossed the length of the room and drew his sword with one motion and placed the blade next to her throat. "I will not accept silence nor will I accept lies," he declared, "I will slit your throat if I suspect falsehood from you."
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What business do you have flying a dragon? What business do you have here?"
Before she could answer, the man crossed the length of the room and drew his sword with one motion and placed the blade next to her throat. "I will not accept silence nor will I accept lies," he declared, "I will slit your throat if I suspect falsehood from you."
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
The way how the rider pronounced her name was odd, wrong, tinted with an accent. But it was not said with malice or annoyance that Hisraad said her name with, neither was it pronounced tinted with fear and caution that the slaves working alongside her had laced their voices with while addressing the foreign woman. It seemed that the rider pronounced her name as if tasting it, feeling it roll off his tongue. It was a pleasant change from the usual way how she was called. It made her feel nostalgic for the times of years ago, when she was free.
Hope, spreading slowly within the woman’s chest, began to grow, nurtured by the attitude of the rider towards her. Ibrahim, a slave in Hisraad’s household, once told Irene something that rubbed her the wrong way – that a slave’s only hope is to have a good master. It was all any of them could hope for. It was why they all prayed to be taken in by a dragon rider.
And Irene had been taken by a dragon rider, one who seemed to be of an honourable sort if those ever had been born into the ranks of the dragon riders who had subjected an innocent woman to a life of slavery.
The woman had pushed aside the thought. Being bought was nothing to be proud of, no matter who was the master. To accept the life of a slave, of a person who is viewed to be nothing more than cattle, was the first step to losing all hope of ever returning to a life once had.
So Irene focused on the scenery moving beneath them, instead. On the sight of the world being down there, below the strong wings of the dragon and its body.
The serenity did not last for long.
The sound of something exploding down below had broken the silence. Irene jerked on the saddle in surprise and looked down, shocked. That was not a sound that she had ever heard of.
“What was that?” She asked, still looking down while holding onto the saddle of with her hand. Two more cracks followed, and moments after the dragon had turned sharply.
Irene had but a fraction of a second to grip the saddle with her right hand and let go of the shawl to keep herself sitting upright on the saddle. She forced her body to turn to the opposite side from which the dragon kept turning towards, flying in circles.
“What are you—“ Irene’s voice was hoarse as it strained to pass a dry throat. She turned however was possible in order to look at the rider, and stared at the body.
The rider, once full of life and confidence, was slumped to the side, his eyes glazed and dim, staring into the distance but focusing on nothing. And there was blood. It was splattered over his armour, oozing down from a large opening in the side of the rider’s head.
The dragon kept turning and turning in a circle, the body began to slide down.
There was no arrow. There could not be an arrow, how would it reach so high up? And even if it did, where did it go? No bowstring ever produced such loud sounds.
Thoughts turned into a chaotic whirlwind in the woman’s mind as she reached towards the rider to grab him on the wrist and pull him towards her, to prevent the man from outright sliding off his own dragon. The body was heavy and she groaned as it was pulled towards her, pushing against the wind current that threatened to push him off the saddle. Finally, it fell heavily against the woman as she held onto him with one arm, the other still grasping the saddle in a steel grip.
“Hey,” Irene called out as she shook the man, “hey!”
There was no breath; no light in his eyes. The blood stained the dirtied linen of her gown, coloured her neck bloody.
He was dead. The rider was dead.
How? Why?
In the moment that the body fell against her, lifeless and heavy, clad in purples that she admired and wished to see more of, the hope that came to life in the woman’s chest had died off. It died along with the rider.
Unable to push the body aside, or maybe unwilling to let go of it as the sane part of Irene’s mind urged her to keep a tight hold on the rider, Irene pushed her heels against the dragon’s side. It did not listen to the command, neither did it stop thrashing and circling in one spot. Finally, it calmed down and headed into a some direction.
It roared and bellowed, flame released from its jaws and heated the air as it pushed against Irene’s face and pulled back the shawl.
The landing was harsh and sudden. Irene would have fallen over, had she not pressed her legs hard against the beast’s sides. Her fingers had turned numb from the steel hold on the saddle, and her back arched in a poor attempt to become smaller and thus not be pushed away by the wind current. Wings rose up and down, the dragon kicking and bellowing in…sadness, anguish?
By the time the dragon had been subdued by someone – Irene had not seen who, the dragon constantly kept moving and the woman was too preoccupied with not falling off the angered beast to notice that there were figures around them, moving and panicking all around – the body of the rider had been completely resting against Irene.
Someone reached out towards the rider and Irene clung onto him, for some odd reason, until she noticed the symbol etched onto their collars. The same symbol was shown on the piece of cloth that was attached to the rider’s armour. Was this his home?
The body was taken away from Irene, who was as shocked as anyone else. The rider’s lifeless body was carried way and Irene continued to sit on the saddle, staring at the servants as they carried away the man whose name she still did not know. Her own hands were bloody, her clothes were stained reddish brown with the still damp blood; even her neck and cheek was smeared with blood, as that is where the man’s head had fallen against when she finally pulled the man against her side.
The blood was damp and warm. Irene felt bile rise in her throat as she stared down at the clothes now ruined by blood, at her own skin.
When was the last time she had someone else’s blood on her?
Someone screamed just as Irene slid down the saddle in order to get onto solid ground. It was then that someone reached out to her. Instinctively, Irene stepped out of the way, using footwork that had been memorized years before. Fluid in her movements she dodged the first pair of hands as the servant – or was it a guard? – reached towards her to seize her. She raised an arm, a sign to stop and give her some space as she stepped back and away from those who aimed to take hold of the woman.
“Wait, this isn’t—“ she began and took another step back. Someone grabbed her wrist and pulled. Losing her balance only for a moment, Irene stepped forward and raised her other hand. The base of her palm collided painfully with the neck of the one who grabbed her, punching at the man’s Adam’s apple. The man let go of her wrist, and stumbled back, grasping at his neck – now stained with a small print of blood from her palm – and wheezing hoarsely for air.
“Let me explain—“ It was no use. She took another step back, then one more, moving away with smoothness that Irene thought to be long lost. But there were too many, and more were on their way, surely. So she let them grab at her and drag her towards some room. It was hard to see the surroundings, the sun blinding and the people moving about in panic and horror after having seen the corpse of a rider be brought by his own dragon.
Air was knocked out of the woman’s lungs as she was pushed onto the chair. Irene had but a moment to regain her breath and lean forward. The door swung open a fraction of a second after, and a man entered the room. Irene raised her head to look at him.
He was dressed in armour, as was the now dead rider, but wore a different symbol. The symbol did not matter, however. It was the sword that mattered and the way how this man conducted himself. Another rider, surely. He had the aura of confidence and authority about him.
Irene parted her lips and took a breath in order to reply when the man closed the distance between them and aimed the razor sharp blade of his sword at her neck. All the woman could do was lean as far as possible into the chair, pressing her back hard against it. She raised her chin and angled her head back to make some distance between the sharp blade and her neck.
The silver of her eyes were fixated on the blade and the arm of the man who held it. One flick of his wrist was enough to slit her throat open and end her life. He spoke once again, his tone authoritative and menacing in a way that made Irene’s skin crawl.
Her throat bobbed as she looked up at the man and looked him in the eye.
You will slit my throat anyway if you don’t like the answer.
“I was bought,” the woman began, her voice surprisingly steady as was her body. She was utterly still, unmovable. But her heart beat so hard, Irene wondered if this man could hear it. If he could hear the woman’s heart beat so loudly and strongly in her chest, as if in a poor attempt to break free of its cage and flee a certain death.
“That man bought me from Hisraad Malak’s estate. He told me to climb onto the dragon. We flew off, where I don’t know. Sometime after, I heard loud bangs from the ground. Three of them. The dragon went crazy, began to fly in circles. When I turned around the man was dead.”
He would not believe her. Who would? Three sounds, a dragon flying in circles, and a man suddenly dead on the saddle of his own dragon? She would not have believed her.
“I did not kill him,” she continued while still holding the man’s gaze. “I swear that on the Mountain and the Gods above and below it.”
There was little use in explaining that she had nothing to kill that nameless rider with. Nothing that could cause an injury such as the one he suffered. They were high up in the air, and if the man in front of her had any wits about him he could counter her claim but simply accusing her of dropping the weapon onto the ground.
There was little use in explaining that she was smart enough to not dare kill a dragon rider on his own dragon.
All she could hope for was that this man believed a silly tale of a slave, even if it was the truth.
Hope, spreading slowly within the woman’s chest, began to grow, nurtured by the attitude of the rider towards her. Ibrahim, a slave in Hisraad’s household, once told Irene something that rubbed her the wrong way – that a slave’s only hope is to have a good master. It was all any of them could hope for. It was why they all prayed to be taken in by a dragon rider.
And Irene had been taken by a dragon rider, one who seemed to be of an honourable sort if those ever had been born into the ranks of the dragon riders who had subjected an innocent woman to a life of slavery.
The woman had pushed aside the thought. Being bought was nothing to be proud of, no matter who was the master. To accept the life of a slave, of a person who is viewed to be nothing more than cattle, was the first step to losing all hope of ever returning to a life once had.
So Irene focused on the scenery moving beneath them, instead. On the sight of the world being down there, below the strong wings of the dragon and its body.
The serenity did not last for long.
The sound of something exploding down below had broken the silence. Irene jerked on the saddle in surprise and looked down, shocked. That was not a sound that she had ever heard of.
“What was that?” She asked, still looking down while holding onto the saddle of with her hand. Two more cracks followed, and moments after the dragon had turned sharply.
Irene had but a fraction of a second to grip the saddle with her right hand and let go of the shawl to keep herself sitting upright on the saddle. She forced her body to turn to the opposite side from which the dragon kept turning towards, flying in circles.
“What are you—“ Irene’s voice was hoarse as it strained to pass a dry throat. She turned however was possible in order to look at the rider, and stared at the body.
The rider, once full of life and confidence, was slumped to the side, his eyes glazed and dim, staring into the distance but focusing on nothing. And there was blood. It was splattered over his armour, oozing down from a large opening in the side of the rider’s head.
The dragon kept turning and turning in a circle, the body began to slide down.
There was no arrow. There could not be an arrow, how would it reach so high up? And even if it did, where did it go? No bowstring ever produced such loud sounds.
Thoughts turned into a chaotic whirlwind in the woman’s mind as she reached towards the rider to grab him on the wrist and pull him towards her, to prevent the man from outright sliding off his own dragon. The body was heavy and she groaned as it was pulled towards her, pushing against the wind current that threatened to push him off the saddle. Finally, it fell heavily against the woman as she held onto him with one arm, the other still grasping the saddle in a steel grip.
“Hey,” Irene called out as she shook the man, “hey!”
There was no breath; no light in his eyes. The blood stained the dirtied linen of her gown, coloured her neck bloody.
He was dead. The rider was dead.
How? Why?
In the moment that the body fell against her, lifeless and heavy, clad in purples that she admired and wished to see more of, the hope that came to life in the woman’s chest had died off. It died along with the rider.
Unable to push the body aside, or maybe unwilling to let go of it as the sane part of Irene’s mind urged her to keep a tight hold on the rider, Irene pushed her heels against the dragon’s side. It did not listen to the command, neither did it stop thrashing and circling in one spot. Finally, it calmed down and headed into a some direction.
It roared and bellowed, flame released from its jaws and heated the air as it pushed against Irene’s face and pulled back the shawl.
The landing was harsh and sudden. Irene would have fallen over, had she not pressed her legs hard against the beast’s sides. Her fingers had turned numb from the steel hold on the saddle, and her back arched in a poor attempt to become smaller and thus not be pushed away by the wind current. Wings rose up and down, the dragon kicking and bellowing in…sadness, anguish?
By the time the dragon had been subdued by someone – Irene had not seen who, the dragon constantly kept moving and the woman was too preoccupied with not falling off the angered beast to notice that there were figures around them, moving and panicking all around – the body of the rider had been completely resting against Irene.
Someone reached out towards the rider and Irene clung onto him, for some odd reason, until she noticed the symbol etched onto their collars. The same symbol was shown on the piece of cloth that was attached to the rider’s armour. Was this his home?
The body was taken away from Irene, who was as shocked as anyone else. The rider’s lifeless body was carried way and Irene continued to sit on the saddle, staring at the servants as they carried away the man whose name she still did not know. Her own hands were bloody, her clothes were stained reddish brown with the still damp blood; even her neck and cheek was smeared with blood, as that is where the man’s head had fallen against when she finally pulled the man against her side.
The blood was damp and warm. Irene felt bile rise in her throat as she stared down at the clothes now ruined by blood, at her own skin.
When was the last time she had someone else’s blood on her?
Someone screamed just as Irene slid down the saddle in order to get onto solid ground. It was then that someone reached out to her. Instinctively, Irene stepped out of the way, using footwork that had been memorized years before. Fluid in her movements she dodged the first pair of hands as the servant – or was it a guard? – reached towards her to seize her. She raised an arm, a sign to stop and give her some space as she stepped back and away from those who aimed to take hold of the woman.
“Wait, this isn’t—“ she began and took another step back. Someone grabbed her wrist and pulled. Losing her balance only for a moment, Irene stepped forward and raised her other hand. The base of her palm collided painfully with the neck of the one who grabbed her, punching at the man’s Adam’s apple. The man let go of her wrist, and stumbled back, grasping at his neck – now stained with a small print of blood from her palm – and wheezing hoarsely for air.
“Let me explain—“ It was no use. She took another step back, then one more, moving away with smoothness that Irene thought to be long lost. But there were too many, and more were on their way, surely. So she let them grab at her and drag her towards some room. It was hard to see the surroundings, the sun blinding and the people moving about in panic and horror after having seen the corpse of a rider be brought by his own dragon.
Air was knocked out of the woman’s lungs as she was pushed onto the chair. Irene had but a moment to regain her breath and lean forward. The door swung open a fraction of a second after, and a man entered the room. Irene raised her head to look at him.
He was dressed in armour, as was the now dead rider, but wore a different symbol. The symbol did not matter, however. It was the sword that mattered and the way how this man conducted himself. Another rider, surely. He had the aura of confidence and authority about him.
Irene parted her lips and took a breath in order to reply when the man closed the distance between them and aimed the razor sharp blade of his sword at her neck. All the woman could do was lean as far as possible into the chair, pressing her back hard against it. She raised her chin and angled her head back to make some distance between the sharp blade and her neck.
The silver of her eyes were fixated on the blade and the arm of the man who held it. One flick of his wrist was enough to slit her throat open and end her life. He spoke once again, his tone authoritative and menacing in a way that made Irene’s skin crawl.
Her throat bobbed as she looked up at the man and looked him in the eye.
You will slit my throat anyway if you don’t like the answer.
“I was bought,” the woman began, her voice surprisingly steady as was her body. She was utterly still, unmovable. But her heart beat so hard, Irene wondered if this man could hear it. If he could hear the woman’s heart beat so loudly and strongly in her chest, as if in a poor attempt to break free of its cage and flee a certain death.
“That man bought me from Hisraad Malak’s estate. He told me to climb onto the dragon. We flew off, where I don’t know. Sometime after, I heard loud bangs from the ground. Three of them. The dragon went crazy, began to fly in circles. When I turned around the man was dead.”
He would not believe her. Who would? Three sounds, a dragon flying in circles, and a man suddenly dead on the saddle of his own dragon? She would not have believed her.
“I did not kill him,” she continued while still holding the man’s gaze. “I swear that on the Mountain and the Gods above and below it.”
There was little use in explaining that she had nothing to kill that nameless rider with. Nothing that could cause an injury such as the one he suffered. They were high up in the air, and if the man in front of her had any wits about him he could counter her claim but simply accusing her of dropping the weapon onto the ground.
There was little use in explaining that she was smart enough to not dare kill a dragon rider on his own dragon.
All she could hope for was that this man believed a silly tale of a slave, even if it was the truth.
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FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Zyrell Makhai
Zyrell peered at the woman, the blood of Balin still staining her being. He narrowed his eyes at her but did not move his blade; there could potentially be truth in her words. If she was recently bought, then it was simply bad timing that led her to being with Balin when he died. And the three shots she mentioned could have been the guns; he knew there were reports from all over Nuru that there had been increased amount of activity with them.
He retracted his sword and stared her down. "It is not my place to decide what to do with you," he said calmly. "That is the... now," he said slowly, a bit of sorrow in his words, "master of the house's duty. I will relay your story to him. If it is true, then you will find your place here. If it is not..."
He let his thread and voice trail off.
"It is possible that the late Sir Balin Passi was killed by another, by using something called a gun from afar. I will, however, have to examine you for weapons. Stand," he commanded, his voice steely once more.
He retracted his sword and stared her down. "It is not my place to decide what to do with you," he said calmly. "That is the... now," he said slowly, a bit of sorrow in his words, "master of the house's duty. I will relay your story to him. If it is true, then you will find your place here. If it is not..."
He let his thread and voice trail off.
"It is possible that the late Sir Balin Passi was killed by another, by using something called a gun from afar. I will, however, have to examine you for weapons. Stand," he commanded, his voice steely once more.
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
The cool blade grazed her skin ever so slightly, a mere caress against the woman’s exposed neck. She watched the man intently, the way he held the sword in a steady grip, the way his shoulders were pulled back and his back set straight. It was a habit to take note of such things.
As the man considered her words Irene wondered to herself if it should be concerning that this was not the first time that a blade was pointed to her neck. And that she cared little for it.
Mountain bury me.
The man believed her. A story that sounded nothing more but an extravagant lie, no less. The sword did not slide across her throat and, instead, was pulled away. The metal gleamed menacingly in the dim light. Irene did not move for a moment that lasted an eternity. He believed her. She was alive, with her head still on her shoulders. It was so hard to believe that Irene dared to arch her brows at the man and stare at him in disbelief.
Inwardly, the woman sighed in relief.
Had it been a lucky day, so far? To be bought out of Hisraad’s household, from a man who had tried his very best to break Irene down both mentally and physically, only to be brought into a house of those who dubbed the woman a murderer upon seeing the corpse of their master being brought into the house. But she was still alive. In her mind, Irene had decided that the day was indeed full of miracles if the new head of the household was as benevolent as the one who stood before her now. There was no guarantee that the one who would give out the judgement would believe the idiotic story of hers.
Balin Passi. That was the rider’s name, then. In her mind she tested the name curiously. It was an odd name, but surely common in Crubia. The family name of Passi meant absolutely nothing to her, she’s never heard of it.
For a moment, the man before her spoke with sorrow. So this rider, this Balin, was a friend, an acquaintance or, perhaps, a family member. No wonder the man charged at Irene the moment he arrived, sword in hand, threatening to slit her throat open had she truly taken the rider’s life.
But the sorrow was soon changed back to the authoritative tone. He commanded her to stand, so Irene did.
The gown clung to her body where the blood had been absorbed into the fabric. The knot at her thighs had long since become loose and the skirt once again fell towards the floor. Thin, and now bloodied, shawl hung over the woman’s shoulders, roped around her neck and pushed to the side over the spot where Balin’s body rested against her a short while ago. To say that Irene looked like a mess was an understatement. Dirt still clung to her, dried and smeared it was over her face, and now it was mixed with the blood. Strands of her brown hair had become loose from the once tight braid pinned to the back of her head, and a soft cover of sand clung to the dark hair, coating it in a layer of dust.
A step was taken from the chair and Irene lifted her arms at her sides, an indication that the man could search her. Where would she hide a weapon, anyway? Under the skirts of the thin linen, barely thick enough to hide the skin beneath? There were no defences on her person, not even a small kitchen knife or some stolen blade. She had stopped carrying one over a year ago.
What a gun was Irene had no idea. It was a weapon of rumours that she only heard of sometimes while working the fields, and even before in her previous life. Guns were topics of wild tales that she never believed in, but thought that if they did exist they were too large to hide beneath the rags of a slave.
“When will I be,” her voice trailed off as she searched for the right word, “judged?”
When will I be killed. How long should I wait. What am I to do until then.
As the man considered her words Irene wondered to herself if it should be concerning that this was not the first time that a blade was pointed to her neck. And that she cared little for it.
Mountain bury me.
The man believed her. A story that sounded nothing more but an extravagant lie, no less. The sword did not slide across her throat and, instead, was pulled away. The metal gleamed menacingly in the dim light. Irene did not move for a moment that lasted an eternity. He believed her. She was alive, with her head still on her shoulders. It was so hard to believe that Irene dared to arch her brows at the man and stare at him in disbelief.
Inwardly, the woman sighed in relief.
Had it been a lucky day, so far? To be bought out of Hisraad’s household, from a man who had tried his very best to break Irene down both mentally and physically, only to be brought into a house of those who dubbed the woman a murderer upon seeing the corpse of their master being brought into the house. But she was still alive. In her mind, Irene had decided that the day was indeed full of miracles if the new head of the household was as benevolent as the one who stood before her now. There was no guarantee that the one who would give out the judgement would believe the idiotic story of hers.
Balin Passi. That was the rider’s name, then. In her mind she tested the name curiously. It was an odd name, but surely common in Crubia. The family name of Passi meant absolutely nothing to her, she’s never heard of it.
For a moment, the man before her spoke with sorrow. So this rider, this Balin, was a friend, an acquaintance or, perhaps, a family member. No wonder the man charged at Irene the moment he arrived, sword in hand, threatening to slit her throat open had she truly taken the rider’s life.
But the sorrow was soon changed back to the authoritative tone. He commanded her to stand, so Irene did.
The gown clung to her body where the blood had been absorbed into the fabric. The knot at her thighs had long since become loose and the skirt once again fell towards the floor. Thin, and now bloodied, shawl hung over the woman’s shoulders, roped around her neck and pushed to the side over the spot where Balin’s body rested against her a short while ago. To say that Irene looked like a mess was an understatement. Dirt still clung to her, dried and smeared it was over her face, and now it was mixed with the blood. Strands of her brown hair had become loose from the once tight braid pinned to the back of her head, and a soft cover of sand clung to the dark hair, coating it in a layer of dust.
A step was taken from the chair and Irene lifted her arms at her sides, an indication that the man could search her. Where would she hide a weapon, anyway? Under the skirts of the thin linen, barely thick enough to hide the skin beneath? There were no defences on her person, not even a small kitchen knife or some stolen blade. She had stopped carrying one over a year ago.
What a gun was Irene had no idea. It was a weapon of rumours that she only heard of sometimes while working the fields, and even before in her previous life. Guns were topics of wild tales that she never believed in, but thought that if they did exist they were too large to hide beneath the rags of a slave.
“When will I be,” her voice trailed off as she searched for the right word, “judged?”
When will I be killed. How long should I wait. What am I to do until then.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Zyrell Makhai
Zyrell stepped forward and raised both his hands with his palms flat out. He patted down the slave's arms, pushing the linen towards her skin. She was thin and bony and in no condition to be a dragon rider's slave or servant. There was no way that a dragon rider would stand to have a slave as thin as she was in his household voluntarily. Balin must have picked her up from a suffering group, open-hearted as the man was.
It might have gotten him killed, a dark thought offered Zyrell. He pushed it away for the moment, knowing that Balin was not benevolent either. He knew that the man had slewn at least three in a wild rage after his wife had been killed in front of Hardeep and he knew that Balin had blood on his hands. He was, after all, a dragon rider and dragon riders had to tame beasts that were more than tenfold the size and strength of humans.
There was no house mark on her collar either and so he could figure that she might have traveled from afar.
There was no knife on her body as he patted down the linen, finding only bone. He straightened up after he was finished and walked around to stare at her levelly.
"I do not know," he said, "that is for the master of the house to decide. Wait here and do not attempt to escape; there will be others waiting outside."
With that, he walked out of the room, nodding at the two guards standing outside the door.
"Weaponless, thin," Zyrell said. Weak.
He trotted down the stone path from the stand-alone room at the edge of the taller building, rising up five stories. The servants were clamoring about, murmuring to one another, their heads bent forward and their backs curved. The air was heavy with sadness and somber attitude. Balin was dearly loved by his household and Zyrell could only imagine what Hardeep was like in comparison to his father.
Eventually, he made it to the main building where the main room opened up. A painting of Hardeep and Balin greeted him first, created less than a year ago in order to showcase their life together. It had become a tradition before Hardeep could walk, something his mother had insisted on doing in order to keep track of their family.
He could only imagine how empty it would be the next time the painter came around, to only show Hardeep standing tall.
The painting showed Balin and Hardeep standing next to each other, armor own and swords glinting. Neither were smiling and Balin's hair was already graying, as was his beard. They both stood at angels, Balin on the left and Hardeep on the right, their inner shoulders pushed towards the background. They seemed to be looking far into the future, their lips tight and eyes bright.
Zyrell bowed his head to the image before scurrying off.
"Have you located Hardeep yet to inform him of the news?" he asked a servant.
"We are still looking, sir," they responded, blinking at him. "We'll escort him to his father's... resting place."
"Don't," Zyrell commanded. "Take him to me first, let me tell him why he is being called back home. It will be a shock, a blow to him."
The servant nodded before scurrying off again and Zyrell sighed. He was only three years older than the other but he could not imagine the weight of another dead parent. His youngest sibling, the half-slave, had lost their mother a few years back and their temper had drastically worsened in the direct aftermath and had never truly picked up again. He could only wonder as to how loosing Balin would affect Hardeep.
Dragon riders traditionally lived with all family members until there was not enough room and no place to build up. Hardeep would have looked after Balin in his old age, treated his father to dragon rides. Now any of those opportunities were gone, snatched from them both before either could grow truly old.
Zyrell clucked his tongue sadly and made his way to the staircase, climbing up all floors until he reached the top, the resting place and bedroom of Balin. Entering, he saw the body laid out on the soft mattress, the armor already removed. People in white robes moved about, cleaning away the blood.
"A gun," someone in the robes said, beckoning Zyrell forward. "You said there was a woman there?"
"Yes; thin and a slave. Recently bought."
"She could not have done this; if Balin was riding as he usually does, then she would have had to turn and press the gun to the side of his head. Difficult for us to do and for a slave, nearly impossible. Balin could have shoved her off of the dragon with ease if she attempted to twist around. Foolish for you to accuse a slave; you know how dull they can be."
Zyrell said nothing. Galene was the only slave he didn't consider to be dull in the academic sense, able to read and write but her reckless bravery did make her quite stupid. She didn't fear the dragons and the scars on her body were there to show for it.
"Thank you," Zyrell said, "for your work."
"I would say someone from afar was aiming," the man continued. "Not sure why, but my guess is that the latest deaths are more coordinated than we thought."
Zyrell grunted.
"Should you send someone to take her out for nourishment?" the robed man said. "I can only imagine that Sir Passi would be unhappy to know a slave he bought would grow thin under his roof."
Zyrell jerked his head at a nearby servant, one he vaguely recognized, who dipped his head downwards and scurried off, allowing Zyrell to watch as the robbed man slowly dressed the body in silks the color of his home.
A pity, really, that they were on a body so young.
It might have gotten him killed, a dark thought offered Zyrell. He pushed it away for the moment, knowing that Balin was not benevolent either. He knew that the man had slewn at least three in a wild rage after his wife had been killed in front of Hardeep and he knew that Balin had blood on his hands. He was, after all, a dragon rider and dragon riders had to tame beasts that were more than tenfold the size and strength of humans.
There was no house mark on her collar either and so he could figure that she might have traveled from afar.
There was no knife on her body as he patted down the linen, finding only bone. He straightened up after he was finished and walked around to stare at her levelly.
"I do not know," he said, "that is for the master of the house to decide. Wait here and do not attempt to escape; there will be others waiting outside."
With that, he walked out of the room, nodding at the two guards standing outside the door.
"Weaponless, thin," Zyrell said. Weak.
He trotted down the stone path from the stand-alone room at the edge of the taller building, rising up five stories. The servants were clamoring about, murmuring to one another, their heads bent forward and their backs curved. The air was heavy with sadness and somber attitude. Balin was dearly loved by his household and Zyrell could only imagine what Hardeep was like in comparison to his father.
Eventually, he made it to the main building where the main room opened up. A painting of Hardeep and Balin greeted him first, created less than a year ago in order to showcase their life together. It had become a tradition before Hardeep could walk, something his mother had insisted on doing in order to keep track of their family.
He could only imagine how empty it would be the next time the painter came around, to only show Hardeep standing tall.
The painting showed Balin and Hardeep standing next to each other, armor own and swords glinting. Neither were smiling and Balin's hair was already graying, as was his beard. They both stood at angels, Balin on the left and Hardeep on the right, their inner shoulders pushed towards the background. They seemed to be looking far into the future, their lips tight and eyes bright.
Zyrell bowed his head to the image before scurrying off.
"Have you located Hardeep yet to inform him of the news?" he asked a servant.
"We are still looking, sir," they responded, blinking at him. "We'll escort him to his father's... resting place."
"Don't," Zyrell commanded. "Take him to me first, let me tell him why he is being called back home. It will be a shock, a blow to him."
The servant nodded before scurrying off again and Zyrell sighed. He was only three years older than the other but he could not imagine the weight of another dead parent. His youngest sibling, the half-slave, had lost their mother a few years back and their temper had drastically worsened in the direct aftermath and had never truly picked up again. He could only wonder as to how loosing Balin would affect Hardeep.
Dragon riders traditionally lived with all family members until there was not enough room and no place to build up. Hardeep would have looked after Balin in his old age, treated his father to dragon rides. Now any of those opportunities were gone, snatched from them both before either could grow truly old.
Zyrell clucked his tongue sadly and made his way to the staircase, climbing up all floors until he reached the top, the resting place and bedroom of Balin. Entering, he saw the body laid out on the soft mattress, the armor already removed. People in white robes moved about, cleaning away the blood.
"A gun," someone in the robes said, beckoning Zyrell forward. "You said there was a woman there?"
"Yes; thin and a slave. Recently bought."
"She could not have done this; if Balin was riding as he usually does, then she would have had to turn and press the gun to the side of his head. Difficult for us to do and for a slave, nearly impossible. Balin could have shoved her off of the dragon with ease if she attempted to twist around. Foolish for you to accuse a slave; you know how dull they can be."
Zyrell said nothing. Galene was the only slave he didn't consider to be dull in the academic sense, able to read and write but her reckless bravery did make her quite stupid. She didn't fear the dragons and the scars on her body were there to show for it.
"Thank you," Zyrell said, "for your work."
"I would say someone from afar was aiming," the man continued. "Not sure why, but my guess is that the latest deaths are more coordinated than we thought."
Zyrell grunted.
"Should you send someone to take her out for nourishment?" the robed man said. "I can only imagine that Sir Passi would be unhappy to know a slave he bought would grow thin under his roof."
Zyrell jerked his head at a nearby servant, one he vaguely recognized, who dipped his head downwards and scurried off, allowing Zyrell to watch as the robbed man slowly dressed the body in silks the color of his home.
A pity, really, that they were on a body so young.
Orien
Orien had been present in master Balin's room when the commotion began. He had not left it until that moment, when he had seen the movement of the servants rushing towards a distressed dragon, watched as a body was carried forward and the cries of the mournful had already begun. He had not left the room as the others rushed out to touch their master one last time, screams of agony and sobs beginning already.
Master Balin would be remembered and his killer would certainty not be loved.
He had remained as they stripped the bed, placed the body down, and begun to strip it of armor. He had moved forward to aid, to pry off the pieces from the already cooling corpse, as the white robbed men were called in to examine the body, to discover why and how he had died. They had cleaned away the blood with white cloths that turned pink and Orien had nearly lost his meal when he saw the wound; gaping and oozing and disgusting.
He had returned to his spot against the wall then and had watched them discuss to one another what had happened, had turned the head to see what could have been done. They had agreed with one another that it was done by someone from afar, that unless Balin had sharply turned his head to expose it to the person riding in front that everyone was already accusing, there was no way.
It was only when Zyrell had told him to move that he did, his feet taking him downwards towards the small stone house down by the path that led from the main street, where they kept the troublesome when either of his masters could not make it to the jail or did not wish to.
Orien was not sure how he felt. Saddened? Yes, Balin had been a good master, a good man, a good rider. But he had been cruel in some incidents and he had kept Orien as a slave.
Grief? Yes, as he had already considered, Balin was a good master. And all good masters were mourned.
But he felt numb, shocked, dumbfounded that a good master could die like that, on his own dragon, when he was supposed to be invincible. It felt as if the world had gone mad.
He made his way to the small building, nodded at the guards, and pushed open the door.
Orien was wearing his normal garb; his collar with a skirt around his waist. He had not worn a shirt, as he had no intentions of working outside that day.
"Hello?" he called out. "My name is Orien. I am one of the slaves here at the Passi estate. I am here to take you to your quarters."
Master Balin would be remembered and his killer would certainty not be loved.
He had remained as they stripped the bed, placed the body down, and begun to strip it of armor. He had moved forward to aid, to pry off the pieces from the already cooling corpse, as the white robbed men were called in to examine the body, to discover why and how he had died. They had cleaned away the blood with white cloths that turned pink and Orien had nearly lost his meal when he saw the wound; gaping and oozing and disgusting.
He had returned to his spot against the wall then and had watched them discuss to one another what had happened, had turned the head to see what could have been done. They had agreed with one another that it was done by someone from afar, that unless Balin had sharply turned his head to expose it to the person riding in front that everyone was already accusing, there was no way.
It was only when Zyrell had told him to move that he did, his feet taking him downwards towards the small stone house down by the path that led from the main street, where they kept the troublesome when either of his masters could not make it to the jail or did not wish to.
Orien was not sure how he felt. Saddened? Yes, Balin had been a good master, a good man, a good rider. But he had been cruel in some incidents and he had kept Orien as a slave.
Grief? Yes, as he had already considered, Balin was a good master. And all good masters were mourned.
But he felt numb, shocked, dumbfounded that a good master could die like that, on his own dragon, when he was supposed to be invincible. It felt as if the world had gone mad.
He made his way to the small building, nodded at the guards, and pushed open the door.
Orien was wearing his normal garb; his collar with a skirt around his waist. He had not worn a shirt, as he had no intentions of working outside that day.
"Hello?" he called out. "My name is Orien. I am one of the slaves here at the Passi estate. I am here to take you to your quarters."
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
Surprisingly, the man was gentle. The touch was mere pats against her form, tugging the gown here and there to press it against her skin and the lean muscles beneath. Irene expected the man to demand that she undressed, or outright ripped the gown from her to just be done with it and see if the woman strapped a blade to her thigh or hip. Instead, he only touched her enough to feel any ridges beneath her clothing.
Two years had changed her to near unrecognition. Thin and bony, that was her figure. She could count her ribs through her skin but sliding her hand down her torso; she could feel her hips sticking out even through the fabric of the gown; elbows pointy, knees bony. Cheeks had long fallen in, casting shadows that made Irene seem older and weaker. She was only twenty-seven and looked to be a woman of at least thirty. Fine lines deepened at the corners of her eyes from squinting at the sun for months on end.
When was the last time Irene had looked into a mirror?
Hisraad’s estate once had many mirrors. Even the floor, polished to perfection, reflected the ones standing atop it. Mirrors clad in golden frames, weaving and turning the metal to resemble vines of ivy and grapes. Windows of small pieces of glass, all washed everyday by the hardworking hands of the servants working the manor. In these Irene could see her reflection, but avoided looking at her body change gradually over the months. When Hisraad lost his wealth, the mirrors were sold and Uma kept only one, a cracked in the corner, hidden in the bedroom. Irene, thankfully, was never allowed near it.
Chances were, if she had seen herself in a mirror, she would not recognize herself. Once strong, now driven to a sickly thinness.
The reflection would remind her of Leon, her mentor and guardian, in his last years of life. It was not a happy memory.
Once the man stepped away Irene lowered her arms. He left moments after, leaving Irene alone in the room. There were no windows, the sun’s rays peeked through the narrow slits between the door and the wall. She looked at the door, now closed shut, and then began to pace around the room like a caged animal. The walls were smooth, as was the floor. Not a single crevice, no little dent that can be some mechanism of a hidden door. The walls were not touched, in case her thin fingers left blood prints in their wake.
Irene circled the room once, twice, and finally stopped before the chair. Her knees suddenly felt very week, nausea spread through her core, and her fingers trembled. Shock, it was only shock. Too much had happened too suddenly, disrupting her otherwise calm and uniform days of new life.
She raised a hand to run it through her hair and stopped. The palm was bloody, smeared at the base where she hit some servant in the throat. That was a mistake, one that would surely be viewed as hostility, and taken into account when the new head of the Passi household will be giving out the decision regarding what to do with the slave who possibly killed their family member.
The shawl was pulled off the woman’s shoulders and she rubbed the dirtied fabric over her hands and arms, wiping off the dried blood. Blood came off unwillingly in dried flakes, the fabric rough and painful against her skin. But Irene rubbed and rubbed the skin, wanting to get rid of the blood that pulled at it.
More than once she lifted her gaze towards the door at the slightest sound coming from the other side. There were people here who mourned their master, who wanted to find the one who took his life. And they, surely, blamed the woman, who arrived with the rider and clung to his lifeless body, and who attacked one of their own people when they grabbed her.
Not many would dare stop an angry servant, guard, and especially a family member, from entering the room and ending the woman’s life.
Anger drove people to reckless actions way too often.
The door opened when the shawl was lifted to the woman’s face to wipe off the blood, the cloth now tinted with blood, and Irene’s arms smeared unevenly with blood that refused to come off. Irene got up the moment the door swung open and looked at the figure that stepped into the room. It was a man, his silhouette thin and tall against the sun. It was not the same man who spoke to her before.
“Quarters?” Irene quirked a brow. “Not a jail cell, a dungeon?”
It was hard to imagine a slave owning their own quarters. It was even harder to imagine an accused of murder slave being taken to anywhere but a dungeon.
She stepped away from the chair and headed towards the man, Orien. Her own name was not offered, and she did not speak as she left the dark room and stepped into the sun. The bright rays blinded her and Irene winced, lifting a hand to her eyes to shield them. The blindness was blinked away moments after and she followed the slave closely as he led her down the path towards another building, squat and long, attached to the building that seemed to be used by the family.
There were servants all around the household, all moving about, doing their daily tasks. They were not as thin as those in Hisraad’s estate and looked to be healthy, washed, and well taken care of. It would have been a pleasant sight that promised a good meal and clean clothes in some near future (hopefully), had the servants not stared at the bloodstained woman. There was anger in those glassy stares. Anger and fear. Tension was heavy in the air and Irene felt it weight down on her shoulders, felt the icy cold looks the servants were giving her.
A shiver ran down her spine. The servants whispered to one another, hissing under their breath. All were pale, colour drained from their cheeks at the sight of the woman covered in the blood of their now dead master. More than once she heard someone hiss Murderer under their shallow breath.
Whispers grew louder, bolder. The guard was also shifting in their spots, their hands darted to the familiar hilts of weapons at their hips.
Orien, however, seemed civil.
“Do you believe I am guilty?” Irene asked as she looked to the side, at the cluster of servants that whispered to one another whilst glaring at the woman through narrowed dark eyes. One of them held onto a piece of dampened cloth with trembling fingers, their knuckles white. “You haven’t accused me of murder, yet.”
Two years had changed her to near unrecognition. Thin and bony, that was her figure. She could count her ribs through her skin but sliding her hand down her torso; she could feel her hips sticking out even through the fabric of the gown; elbows pointy, knees bony. Cheeks had long fallen in, casting shadows that made Irene seem older and weaker. She was only twenty-seven and looked to be a woman of at least thirty. Fine lines deepened at the corners of her eyes from squinting at the sun for months on end.
When was the last time Irene had looked into a mirror?
Hisraad’s estate once had many mirrors. Even the floor, polished to perfection, reflected the ones standing atop it. Mirrors clad in golden frames, weaving and turning the metal to resemble vines of ivy and grapes. Windows of small pieces of glass, all washed everyday by the hardworking hands of the servants working the manor. In these Irene could see her reflection, but avoided looking at her body change gradually over the months. When Hisraad lost his wealth, the mirrors were sold and Uma kept only one, a cracked in the corner, hidden in the bedroom. Irene, thankfully, was never allowed near it.
Chances were, if she had seen herself in a mirror, she would not recognize herself. Once strong, now driven to a sickly thinness.
The reflection would remind her of Leon, her mentor and guardian, in his last years of life. It was not a happy memory.
Once the man stepped away Irene lowered her arms. He left moments after, leaving Irene alone in the room. There were no windows, the sun’s rays peeked through the narrow slits between the door and the wall. She looked at the door, now closed shut, and then began to pace around the room like a caged animal. The walls were smooth, as was the floor. Not a single crevice, no little dent that can be some mechanism of a hidden door. The walls were not touched, in case her thin fingers left blood prints in their wake.
Irene circled the room once, twice, and finally stopped before the chair. Her knees suddenly felt very week, nausea spread through her core, and her fingers trembled. Shock, it was only shock. Too much had happened too suddenly, disrupting her otherwise calm and uniform days of new life.
She raised a hand to run it through her hair and stopped. The palm was bloody, smeared at the base where she hit some servant in the throat. That was a mistake, one that would surely be viewed as hostility, and taken into account when the new head of the Passi household will be giving out the decision regarding what to do with the slave who possibly killed their family member.
The shawl was pulled off the woman’s shoulders and she rubbed the dirtied fabric over her hands and arms, wiping off the dried blood. Blood came off unwillingly in dried flakes, the fabric rough and painful against her skin. But Irene rubbed and rubbed the skin, wanting to get rid of the blood that pulled at it.
More than once she lifted her gaze towards the door at the slightest sound coming from the other side. There were people here who mourned their master, who wanted to find the one who took his life. And they, surely, blamed the woman, who arrived with the rider and clung to his lifeless body, and who attacked one of their own people when they grabbed her.
Not many would dare stop an angry servant, guard, and especially a family member, from entering the room and ending the woman’s life.
Anger drove people to reckless actions way too often.
The door opened when the shawl was lifted to the woman’s face to wipe off the blood, the cloth now tinted with blood, and Irene’s arms smeared unevenly with blood that refused to come off. Irene got up the moment the door swung open and looked at the figure that stepped into the room. It was a man, his silhouette thin and tall against the sun. It was not the same man who spoke to her before.
“Quarters?” Irene quirked a brow. “Not a jail cell, a dungeon?”
It was hard to imagine a slave owning their own quarters. It was even harder to imagine an accused of murder slave being taken to anywhere but a dungeon.
She stepped away from the chair and headed towards the man, Orien. Her own name was not offered, and she did not speak as she left the dark room and stepped into the sun. The bright rays blinded her and Irene winced, lifting a hand to her eyes to shield them. The blindness was blinked away moments after and she followed the slave closely as he led her down the path towards another building, squat and long, attached to the building that seemed to be used by the family.
There were servants all around the household, all moving about, doing their daily tasks. They were not as thin as those in Hisraad’s estate and looked to be healthy, washed, and well taken care of. It would have been a pleasant sight that promised a good meal and clean clothes in some near future (hopefully), had the servants not stared at the bloodstained woman. There was anger in those glassy stares. Anger and fear. Tension was heavy in the air and Irene felt it weight down on her shoulders, felt the icy cold looks the servants were giving her.
A shiver ran down her spine. The servants whispered to one another, hissing under their breath. All were pale, colour drained from their cheeks at the sight of the woman covered in the blood of their now dead master. More than once she heard someone hiss Murderer under their shallow breath.
Whispers grew louder, bolder. The guard was also shifting in their spots, their hands darted to the familiar hilts of weapons at their hips.
Orien, however, seemed civil.
“Do you believe I am guilty?” Irene asked as she looked to the side, at the cluster of servants that whispered to one another whilst glaring at the woman through narrowed dark eyes. One of them held onto a piece of dampened cloth with trembling fingers, their knuckles white. “You haven’t accused me of murder, yet.”
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Orien
It wasn't until the woman stepped into the light that Orien winced slightly at her appearance. She was thin and raggedy and coated in blood, Balin's blood, which he was sure would not go over well. He would take her to the bathhouses and ask her to wash but he was uncertain if that was the best course of action. Then again, if she wanted to live and not get beaten alive by any of the angrier, younger servants or slaves, a wash would be in order.
He dipped his head at the guards as they walked past, nodded at a few of the other servants as they scurried by. He knew they were angry; Balin had been the master they had all dreamed of. Hardeep was a pale comparison. Which was a damn shame; the other man was kind, yes, but he was also a spoiled brat. Orien could only imagine what loosing his guiding light would feel like.
Well, you would sort of know, wouldn't you?
He almost snorted at the thought but decided to keep quiet instead; Hardeep was a man and a dragon rider and Orien was a slave bought at the age of eighteen to serve in their household when his parents had lost their money due to a drought killing their crops. He was not someone who Hardeep would have courted or even considered officially taking into his household. Kydoimos, the only half-slave to be brought in in who knows how long was only given to the Makhai's by their mother when they were born, screaming and squalling and with eyes that did not belong to her.
The chaos was still felt in Kydoimos' anger and the Makhai's quite about their last sibling and Orien was not sure he would have wanted that life, walking the line between rider and slave.
"Murder?" Orien said, finally being pulled into the present by the woman beside him. "Why would I accuse you of murder? As much as the masters like to imagine us as stupid and dull, it would take someone with astronomically stupid and dull intentions to kill a dragon rider like that. On his dragon, which knows its way home? On route to his home, nonetheless, after being bought? Foolish," Orien said, shaking his head. "And I was with the body when they brought it up," he added, his voice steady despite the sickness that he felt at the image. "The men up there spoke about how it would be difficult for anyone, much less a slave weakened by work to kill the master like that. Turning to place a gun by the side of his face would be difficult to do unless he had exposed the flesh to you and given how he usually rides, that is not practical."
Orien waved a hand at a few of the slaves that seemed to be rushing forward to examine the newcomer, the supposed killer. They frowned but darted away nonetheless; Orien had gained some invisible power by being Hardeep's friend-turned-lover-turned-friend-once-more. He was sure that so long as the new slave was by him, her death would not occur too quickly. It would be up to Hardeep to fully remove any stigma officially, though he could imagine that the stain would not leave her, not for a long time.
"Would you like to bathe?" he asked her as they paused on their route to the quarters. "It would perhaps do your image some good. The bathhouses are a short detour down that path," he said, pointing in the opposite direction they had been walking. "Our current master will not return for a while yet, I assume."
He dipped his head at the guards as they walked past, nodded at a few of the other servants as they scurried by. He knew they were angry; Balin had been the master they had all dreamed of. Hardeep was a pale comparison. Which was a damn shame; the other man was kind, yes, but he was also a spoiled brat. Orien could only imagine what loosing his guiding light would feel like.
Well, you would sort of know, wouldn't you?
He almost snorted at the thought but decided to keep quiet instead; Hardeep was a man and a dragon rider and Orien was a slave bought at the age of eighteen to serve in their household when his parents had lost their money due to a drought killing their crops. He was not someone who Hardeep would have courted or even considered officially taking into his household. Kydoimos, the only half-slave to be brought in in who knows how long was only given to the Makhai's by their mother when they were born, screaming and squalling and with eyes that did not belong to her.
The chaos was still felt in Kydoimos' anger and the Makhai's quite about their last sibling and Orien was not sure he would have wanted that life, walking the line between rider and slave.
"Murder?" Orien said, finally being pulled into the present by the woman beside him. "Why would I accuse you of murder? As much as the masters like to imagine us as stupid and dull, it would take someone with astronomically stupid and dull intentions to kill a dragon rider like that. On his dragon, which knows its way home? On route to his home, nonetheless, after being bought? Foolish," Orien said, shaking his head. "And I was with the body when they brought it up," he added, his voice steady despite the sickness that he felt at the image. "The men up there spoke about how it would be difficult for anyone, much less a slave weakened by work to kill the master like that. Turning to place a gun by the side of his face would be difficult to do unless he had exposed the flesh to you and given how he usually rides, that is not practical."
Orien waved a hand at a few of the slaves that seemed to be rushing forward to examine the newcomer, the supposed killer. They frowned but darted away nonetheless; Orien had gained some invisible power by being Hardeep's friend-turned-lover-turned-friend-once-more. He was sure that so long as the new slave was by him, her death would not occur too quickly. It would be up to Hardeep to fully remove any stigma officially, though he could imagine that the stain would not leave her, not for a long time.
"Would you like to bathe?" he asked her as they paused on their route to the quarters. "It would perhaps do your image some good. The bathhouses are a short detour down that path," he said, pointing in the opposite direction they had been walking. "Our current master will not return for a while yet, I assume."
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
The servants kept a respectable distance from the so called Murderer. The slave who escorted her nodded to some, looked at others in recognition. A popular slave, then, this man was. Or maybe the household itself was a close-knit one, with the servants much less antagonistic to one another.
Hisraad’s estate was much different. Servants did despicable things, stole food rations and clothing, especially from those who were younger. Those who grew weak with years died not of sickness or their age, but of hunger. They were too weak to fight back, too weak to show any strength that could keep those who worked alongside them on the fields at bay.
The servants in the Malak household kept their distance from Irene. They remembered the day when she attempted to escape vividly, able to recall all the details of how she stabbed a guard and then was caught after an arrow found its home in her back. Newer slaves, bought much later to replace those who died after Hisraad had lost his wealth, only heard quiet whispers of Irene.
One of such slaves was a man with broad shoulders and thick arms. A deserter from some war that had just ended somewhere far away. He took the food from the rest of the servants in the Malak estate, forced them to give him their new and clean clothing, and even the thin straw mats to soften his own bed with. When Irene had made the man fall face first onto the ground more than once, he seized his foolish attempts of taking that which was hers.
Karma had caught up to him some months after, when he was found to have stolen a jewelled ring from Uma. He was beheaded on the same day. Whether he truly did steal the ring was a mystery, and the slaves refused to talk about it. But Irene knew that the man was innocent – he was working the fields with her the entire week and his actions were closely monitored by all.
It appeared that here, too, she would need to show some resilience and strength. The stigma of a Murderer would be with her for a long time even if the new head of the Passi family found her innocent.
She could see the fear and anger in the eyes of those who neared her. With tense shoulders she watched the servants near, rushing forward to either attack her or look closely at the blood covered woman. The shawl was gripped tightly in her hands, wrapped around her right hand in a knot as she carried it. But there was no need to show violence or prepare herself for an attack, be it verbal or physical. Orien waved the servants away, and they left, as if by command.
With an arched brow Irene looked at Orien who walked slightly to the front but still beside her. He was dressed simply, only wearing a loincloth, and the collar of a slave was wrapped around his neck. There was no jewellery, nothing that could indicate his status. And yet, the others listened to him. He did not appear to be particularly strong, either. Lean and healthy, yes, but not overly muscular or tall and broad.
Someone close to those in power, then. Balin had mentioned he had no daughters to Hisraad, she remembered that.
And, to her surprise, Orien seemed to be educated.
“Those around us seem to think otherwise,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes on the slaves that stared right back at her, hissing some insult or another under their breath. “Desperate people do foolish things. Attacking a rider on his own dragon can be one of such. To send a message, to get revenge, to be freed even if through death.”
Orien spoke of a gun and Irene forced her gaze to shift from watching the slaves to look at the one who escorted her. “I hope the new head of this household is as open minded as you are.”
It was pleasant to hear that someone did not jump to conclusions without thinking things through. Though, it was naïve, too. There were ways to turn a man’s head to the side, expose his weak points to a weakened slave that had more than enough reason to wish death of the dragon rider. The gun – whatever it was – could be used and then thrown away. The slave would not have known that the dragon would fly to the house of its master. The slave would hope that the dragon would follow commands, no matter who is sitting atop the saddle.
Irene did not voice such thoughts, either not to plant doubt in Orien’s mind, or just out of habit of staying silent. Perhaps both.
At the offer of a bath Irene felt the weight of the blood tugging against her skin even more. She had long since stopped caring about the built up dirt on her hands and legs, but the feeling of someone else’s blood on her hands had long been forgotten.
“Yes,” Irene replied and halted to a stop beside Orien, and did not look in the direction where he pointed at. Instead, her eyes were focused on a servant not too far from them. A dark skinned woman with cropped short black hair and deep-set bloodshot black eyes that gleamed with anger so immense that Irene felt suddenly cold, and her heart beat in her ears loudly. That servant was crouched low to the ground, a washcloth in her hand moving in slow circles over the cobblestones. Her other hand in the meantime reached towards a rock the size of a fist.
“Let’s go.” The dark skinned servant picked up the stone and Irene felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. Irene turned to the side, becoming a much smaller target and followed Orien down the path where he pointed at earlier. “Getting rid of your old master’s blood might put some minds at ease,” Irene continued and glanced over her shoulder at the servant who had straightened, stone in hand, her eyes fixated on Irene. “He seems to be loved here. Slaves in the household where I was bought from would have rejoiced if their master died. They pray for his death every waking moment.”
They continued down the path, farther and farther. When Irene glanced over her shoulder once again the servant was no longer crouched on the cobblestones, and was gone, taking the bucket of water and the washcloth with her.
For a moment, Irene wondered if this was a better alternative to Hisraad’s estate.
“Do you know him well? Your new master.” Our new master seemed to be a bit of a premature thing to say. Word master always unnerved her, too.
Hisraad’s estate was much different. Servants did despicable things, stole food rations and clothing, especially from those who were younger. Those who grew weak with years died not of sickness or their age, but of hunger. They were too weak to fight back, too weak to show any strength that could keep those who worked alongside them on the fields at bay.
The servants in the Malak household kept their distance from Irene. They remembered the day when she attempted to escape vividly, able to recall all the details of how she stabbed a guard and then was caught after an arrow found its home in her back. Newer slaves, bought much later to replace those who died after Hisraad had lost his wealth, only heard quiet whispers of Irene.
One of such slaves was a man with broad shoulders and thick arms. A deserter from some war that had just ended somewhere far away. He took the food from the rest of the servants in the Malak estate, forced them to give him their new and clean clothing, and even the thin straw mats to soften his own bed with. When Irene had made the man fall face first onto the ground more than once, he seized his foolish attempts of taking that which was hers.
Karma had caught up to him some months after, when he was found to have stolen a jewelled ring from Uma. He was beheaded on the same day. Whether he truly did steal the ring was a mystery, and the slaves refused to talk about it. But Irene knew that the man was innocent – he was working the fields with her the entire week and his actions were closely monitored by all.
It appeared that here, too, she would need to show some resilience and strength. The stigma of a Murderer would be with her for a long time even if the new head of the Passi family found her innocent.
She could see the fear and anger in the eyes of those who neared her. With tense shoulders she watched the servants near, rushing forward to either attack her or look closely at the blood covered woman. The shawl was gripped tightly in her hands, wrapped around her right hand in a knot as she carried it. But there was no need to show violence or prepare herself for an attack, be it verbal or physical. Orien waved the servants away, and they left, as if by command.
With an arched brow Irene looked at Orien who walked slightly to the front but still beside her. He was dressed simply, only wearing a loincloth, and the collar of a slave was wrapped around his neck. There was no jewellery, nothing that could indicate his status. And yet, the others listened to him. He did not appear to be particularly strong, either. Lean and healthy, yes, but not overly muscular or tall and broad.
Someone close to those in power, then. Balin had mentioned he had no daughters to Hisraad, she remembered that.
And, to her surprise, Orien seemed to be educated.
“Those around us seem to think otherwise,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes on the slaves that stared right back at her, hissing some insult or another under their breath. “Desperate people do foolish things. Attacking a rider on his own dragon can be one of such. To send a message, to get revenge, to be freed even if through death.”
Orien spoke of a gun and Irene forced her gaze to shift from watching the slaves to look at the one who escorted her. “I hope the new head of this household is as open minded as you are.”
It was pleasant to hear that someone did not jump to conclusions without thinking things through. Though, it was naïve, too. There were ways to turn a man’s head to the side, expose his weak points to a weakened slave that had more than enough reason to wish death of the dragon rider. The gun – whatever it was – could be used and then thrown away. The slave would not have known that the dragon would fly to the house of its master. The slave would hope that the dragon would follow commands, no matter who is sitting atop the saddle.
Irene did not voice such thoughts, either not to plant doubt in Orien’s mind, or just out of habit of staying silent. Perhaps both.
At the offer of a bath Irene felt the weight of the blood tugging against her skin even more. She had long since stopped caring about the built up dirt on her hands and legs, but the feeling of someone else’s blood on her hands had long been forgotten.
“Yes,” Irene replied and halted to a stop beside Orien, and did not look in the direction where he pointed at. Instead, her eyes were focused on a servant not too far from them. A dark skinned woman with cropped short black hair and deep-set bloodshot black eyes that gleamed with anger so immense that Irene felt suddenly cold, and her heart beat in her ears loudly. That servant was crouched low to the ground, a washcloth in her hand moving in slow circles over the cobblestones. Her other hand in the meantime reached towards a rock the size of a fist.
“Let’s go.” The dark skinned servant picked up the stone and Irene felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. Irene turned to the side, becoming a much smaller target and followed Orien down the path where he pointed at earlier. “Getting rid of your old master’s blood might put some minds at ease,” Irene continued and glanced over her shoulder at the servant who had straightened, stone in hand, her eyes fixated on Irene. “He seems to be loved here. Slaves in the household where I was bought from would have rejoiced if their master died. They pray for his death every waking moment.”
They continued down the path, farther and farther. When Irene glanced over her shoulder once again the servant was no longer crouched on the cobblestones, and was gone, taking the bucket of water and the washcloth with her.
For a moment, Irene wondered if this was a better alternative to Hisraad’s estate.
“Do you know him well? Your new master.” Our new master seemed to be a bit of a premature thing to say. Word master always unnerved her, too.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Orien
Kydoimos Makhai
Mentioned
Mentioned
Galene
Mentioned
Mentioned
"You must know how blood runs," Orien said, watching the servants and slaves skitter about. "Most feel anger and grief. They are used to master Balin being around and the way he runs things; they may be a bit... worried about how our new one will take things now that he is the sole one in charge."
Orien did his best not to flinch or twitch as the woman asked how he knew their new master. Master. He had called Hardeep "dear" once and he had called Orien "lover" once and there were still some raw spots when it came to the other man, spots that he was sure would never fully heal over. He had been a friend once, a confident and then he had become a bedwarmer and a toy. And it had not mattered to Hardeep, a spoiled brat that thought the world was his to take without consequence because it was, in a way.
"I know him," Orien said levelly. "And I can say that he does not have his father's level-headedness or quite his kindness. He will be a different master, though whether or not that is good is something to be seen."
He paused and turned towards the slave fully. "You must know, Balin was unique among them. Kinder than most to the slaves and a man who many slaves almost worshiped. He was far too good, almost too good to be a dragon rider. Any evils he might have done have long been forgiven by most here for his kindnesses and as such, they will not take his death nor whoever killed him lightly.
"Most dragon riders have a temper. They are built to believe they are the best of the best, that the world is theirs to take and swallow whole. His son and our new master is one of those sorts. He's a bit better than some; he respects most of us and doesn't physically punish us, though you would be hard-pressed to find a dragon rider that does punish their slaves with violence that is also respected.
"Either way, master Balin was respected by everyone. Especially the slaves and the servants and the ones that didn't really belong."
He turned and spotted two figures and his mouth twisted into an expression of pain and pity.
"Speaking of which," he began before turning to view the figure approaching fully.
"Sir Kydoimos," he called out, "I see you're here."
The rider had on their armor as well and a servant by their side, her hair swept up in messy curls into a ponytail, her eyes wide and darting around. She had nothing in her hands and her linen was dark in color, as if she was already wearing mourning clothes. Her eyes landed on the slave beside Orien and they widened, a hand reaching out to seize the wrist of the rider. They whipped their head to glare at her and for a tense moment, they exchanged words that were too quiet for Orien to hear, though he suspected that the slave was trying to calm down the rider, at least to a point where they would not attempt to kill the bloody one next to him.
Their voices were growing louder and Orien heard a few words about logic, murder, payment, and target.
After a few more moments, the slave released the wrist and they began walking again, the rider looking angry and the slave folding her arms over her chest and looking perturbed.
"Orien," the rider said, glaring down at him from his height. The smaller slave glanced at the bloodied one as well, her eyes drinking her in as if to memorize the stains.
"Have you come to pay your respects?" Orien asked.
"Damn straight," they spat. "And I see you're carting this one off elsewhere, to hide?"
"Makes sense, half of the people here would have killed her without another thought," the slave said, joining in the conversation unprompted.
"I would have let them," the rider sniffed.
"You would have also fed Isolik and Nyr to the dragons but you didn't because that'd be wrong now, didn't you?" the slave responded smartly, her face turned to stare at the rider without an ounce of fear.
"Careful," the rider said slowly, their eyes narrowing, "or I'll feed you to the dragons."
"Nonsense," she replied, her chin pushed forward in challenge. "I'm far too tough for them to consume and you would have a decent amount of explaining to do as to why the dragons seemed dirtier than usual because the one person who is able to clean them properly isn't around."
The rider stared at her for a moment before snorting, almost as if amused. Their eyes, however, turned back to the slave and narrowed.
"This is Sir Kydoimos," Orien said quickly when the conversation between the two seemed to lull. "They are from house Makhai. And this is Galene, a servant from the home."
Galene provided a small wave. "I am sorry to hear of the passing of Sir Balin," she said sorrowfully, "and that there seems to be quite a bit of conflict with it."
Orien did his best not to flinch or twitch as the woman asked how he knew their new master. Master. He had called Hardeep "dear" once and he had called Orien "lover" once and there were still some raw spots when it came to the other man, spots that he was sure would never fully heal over. He had been a friend once, a confident and then he had become a bedwarmer and a toy. And it had not mattered to Hardeep, a spoiled brat that thought the world was his to take without consequence because it was, in a way.
"I know him," Orien said levelly. "And I can say that he does not have his father's level-headedness or quite his kindness. He will be a different master, though whether or not that is good is something to be seen."
He paused and turned towards the slave fully. "You must know, Balin was unique among them. Kinder than most to the slaves and a man who many slaves almost worshiped. He was far too good, almost too good to be a dragon rider. Any evils he might have done have long been forgiven by most here for his kindnesses and as such, they will not take his death nor whoever killed him lightly.
"Most dragon riders have a temper. They are built to believe they are the best of the best, that the world is theirs to take and swallow whole. His son and our new master is one of those sorts. He's a bit better than some; he respects most of us and doesn't physically punish us, though you would be hard-pressed to find a dragon rider that does punish their slaves with violence that is also respected.
"Either way, master Balin was respected by everyone. Especially the slaves and the servants and the ones that didn't really belong."
He turned and spotted two figures and his mouth twisted into an expression of pain and pity.
"Speaking of which," he began before turning to view the figure approaching fully.
"Sir Kydoimos," he called out, "I see you're here."
The rider had on their armor as well and a servant by their side, her hair swept up in messy curls into a ponytail, her eyes wide and darting around. She had nothing in her hands and her linen was dark in color, as if she was already wearing mourning clothes. Her eyes landed on the slave beside Orien and they widened, a hand reaching out to seize the wrist of the rider. They whipped their head to glare at her and for a tense moment, they exchanged words that were too quiet for Orien to hear, though he suspected that the slave was trying to calm down the rider, at least to a point where they would not attempt to kill the bloody one next to him.
Their voices were growing louder and Orien heard a few words about logic, murder, payment, and target.
After a few more moments, the slave released the wrist and they began walking again, the rider looking angry and the slave folding her arms over her chest and looking perturbed.
"Orien," the rider said, glaring down at him from his height. The smaller slave glanced at the bloodied one as well, her eyes drinking her in as if to memorize the stains.
"Have you come to pay your respects?" Orien asked.
"Damn straight," they spat. "And I see you're carting this one off elsewhere, to hide?"
"Makes sense, half of the people here would have killed her without another thought," the slave said, joining in the conversation unprompted.
"I would have let them," the rider sniffed.
"You would have also fed Isolik and Nyr to the dragons but you didn't because that'd be wrong now, didn't you?" the slave responded smartly, her face turned to stare at the rider without an ounce of fear.
"Careful," the rider said slowly, their eyes narrowing, "or I'll feed you to the dragons."
"Nonsense," she replied, her chin pushed forward in challenge. "I'm far too tough for them to consume and you would have a decent amount of explaining to do as to why the dragons seemed dirtier than usual because the one person who is able to clean them properly isn't around."
The rider stared at her for a moment before snorting, almost as if amused. Their eyes, however, turned back to the slave and narrowed.
"This is Sir Kydoimos," Orien said quickly when the conversation between the two seemed to lull. "They are from house Makhai. And this is Galene, a servant from the home."
Galene provided a small wave. "I am sorry to hear of the passing of Sir Balin," she said sorrowfully, "and that there seems to be quite a bit of conflict with it."
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
The question of the new master was a prying one, Irene realized that herself. That is why it was asked. The reply mattered little, if Orien decided to voice it, and the words said mattered little. What was important was the way how they were said. The reaction, the expression, the voice. All this could point to the relationship between Orien and the new head of the Passi household.
Orien was close to someone here. She just needed to know who, and either find an ally in the slave who escorted her or stay away from him. It was a hunch, a wild guess. But rarely did slaves follow commands of one of their own unless they feared him.
His expression remained calm, his voice, too, as he replied to her question.
“Does it matter?” Irene asked as she looked ahead, ignoring the tugging in her gut. Alarm bells were ringing quietly in her mind, warning the woman of the danger. Her back was too exposed, and that dark skinned servant was Mountain knows where. The rest of the servants moved about silently, akin to those that worked the fields with Irene in the Malak estate. These, however, spoke to one another. Words were whispered, hands were raised and fingers pointed, their chins jerked at the bloodied woman and Orien as they passed by.
Insults and curses could be ignored, stares, too. A flying cobblestone? Much less so.
“Good master or bad, either way you are bound to serve him.” Irene felt a cool shiver ran up her arms. A bad sign. She was turning paranoid. Before she could continue Orien had stopped and turned towards her. Irene listened to him, looked at him, all the while thinking that they should keep moving. As far away from the angry eyes of the servants as possible.
On the path towards the bathhouse were no servants, thankfully. There was a flash of colour, the linen of someone’s clothes flashing in the bright rays of the sun above. The flash of white was gone as quickly as it appeared, darting behind a corner of some building nearby. There were no trees to hide her thin frame – the entire household was a giant contraption of stone buildings and structures – so Irene had to improvise. She took a subtle step back, as if to back away from Orien who stood a respectable distance away from her anyway, and turned to face Orien.
From Orien’s words, Balin seemed to have been an honourable sort. She had gotten the same impression from the rider, too, when he spoke to Hisraad, threatened to punish the farmer next time they met. Barely any words were exchanged between her and Balin, and she knew of him only for the duration of the flight that was cut short by the three loud bangs that took the rider’s life. So Irene did not express her condolences and remained silent.
Honourable or not, Balin Passi remained a dragon rider. One that still had a son who would decide her fate and servants who wanted the murderer be brought to justice as soon as possible, even if it meant taking matters into their own hands.
Aren’t all in power full of themselves, anyway?
In other nations, and perhaps in this one too, one’s social status depended on where their ass was seated. A throne, a grand chair of plush leathers and ornaments, an encrusted in jewels carriage. All these indicated some wealth, some power. Dragon riders were no different, their backsides were just comfortably seated on the leather saddles of their dragons. No matter the chair, however, all shared the same attitude, the same outlook on life – they all were full of themselves, all driven by power.
Perhaps Balin was different. Perhaps his son was different. Not that it mattered, anyway. She was still wearing a leather collar and still awaiting the decision of whether or not her head is going to stay a part of her body, or roll on the ground.
But it was not the time or the place for this conversation, so Irene did not speak. There was no opportunity, anyway, as a Orien had called out to someone a short distance from them – a rider and a servant, both walking side by side. She watched them near and stop abruptly as the servant reached out and whispered something or other to the rider at her side.
Bold, that one. Irene did not know if she wanted to admire the servant for her courage, or think the girl – for she was a young woman, barely twenty years of age – to be naïve and daft for allowing herself such rude actions.
Some words reached Irene’s ears and she would have snorted at them had the situation been appropriate. As it was, she felt uncomfortable standing like this, out in the open. Her eyes kept darting from one shadow and towards another, a habit she thought to be long forgotten.
Irene did not wilt under the pressure of the looks given to her by both the dragon rider and the servant at his side. Instead she turned to face them and bowed towards the rider even before Orien had introduced him. Her back was straight, her head inclined forward and down.
Daft, Irene decided. The servant had to be daft, still too young to understand when to still her tongue and know her place. The girl joined the conversation with ease, and even snapped back at the rider at her side. Had it been Hisraad, the girl would have been dragged away to be flogged in the backyard.
But the rider snorted.
Surprised at having heard – for Irene was still bowing, her back bent forward in a sign of respect that she did not feel – such a reaction from a dragon rider, Irene looked up at stared at the man. It was at that moment that the rider looked back at Irene, his eyes narrowing in either anger or annoyance, or both.
She held his gaze as she straightened, the silver of her eyes looking into the green of the rider’s, unwavering.
“A pleasure to—“ There was a whistle in the air, and moments after Irene hissed through gritted teeth, stumbling forward, her back arched. Pain spread through her back, originating from a spot under her left shoulder blade. With a thump something fell onto the ground, clattering heavily against the stone beneath their feet.
Spots of white and red flashed before her vision, the pain so blinding and sudden that it took a moment to register what had caused it. The woman slouched forward, one hand raised towards her shoulder, and spun around. Her eyes darted over the ground where the wretched cobblestone lay on its side, and then she lifted her gaze to notice a flash of white. A servant stood there, on the path, panting heavily, their body twisted after having thrown the stone. The cheeks of the servant glistened in the sun, the tears running down in small thin rivers down her dark skin, her eyes pink and damp with moisture.
The servant whispered something, her plump lips moving to form a word that had been uttered more than once by those working in the Passi household.
Murderer.
Only now the irony was registered. To call Irene a murderer was akin to calling a dragon rider a selfless saint. It was impossible to imagine.
The dark skinned woman raised her other hand, her trembling fingers clutching a second stone, similar to the first that found its mark moments before. There were voices, both angry and shocked, as those around watched the scene unfold. No one moved, not yet.
“Orien,” Irene’s voice was quiet but steady, her eyes focused on the dark skinned servant. “Unless you want to see me stoned to death, we should leave. This can go badly.”
Slaves admired Balin, some worshipped him even. They all were devastated over his passing, they all needed someone to blame. Something, maybe common sense, kept their actions at bay. Kept them from carrying out a punishment that fit a murderer of their master. But only a small spark was needed to light a blazing fire. And the spark was standing right there, across the path from Irene, holding a stone that was being ready to be thrown.
The servant’s body twisted as she pulled back her arm, holding the stone so hard her nails scraped against the cobblestone. With trembling lips, she hissed something through gritted teeth, tears continued to glide down her smooth cheeks and fall onto the ground below and absorb into the collar of her clothing.
There was no sanity in the servant’s dark eyes. Nothing but anger and grief.
Orien was close to someone here. She just needed to know who, and either find an ally in the slave who escorted her or stay away from him. It was a hunch, a wild guess. But rarely did slaves follow commands of one of their own unless they feared him.
His expression remained calm, his voice, too, as he replied to her question.
“Does it matter?” Irene asked as she looked ahead, ignoring the tugging in her gut. Alarm bells were ringing quietly in her mind, warning the woman of the danger. Her back was too exposed, and that dark skinned servant was Mountain knows where. The rest of the servants moved about silently, akin to those that worked the fields with Irene in the Malak estate. These, however, spoke to one another. Words were whispered, hands were raised and fingers pointed, their chins jerked at the bloodied woman and Orien as they passed by.
Insults and curses could be ignored, stares, too. A flying cobblestone? Much less so.
“Good master or bad, either way you are bound to serve him.” Irene felt a cool shiver ran up her arms. A bad sign. She was turning paranoid. Before she could continue Orien had stopped and turned towards her. Irene listened to him, looked at him, all the while thinking that they should keep moving. As far away from the angry eyes of the servants as possible.
On the path towards the bathhouse were no servants, thankfully. There was a flash of colour, the linen of someone’s clothes flashing in the bright rays of the sun above. The flash of white was gone as quickly as it appeared, darting behind a corner of some building nearby. There were no trees to hide her thin frame – the entire household was a giant contraption of stone buildings and structures – so Irene had to improvise. She took a subtle step back, as if to back away from Orien who stood a respectable distance away from her anyway, and turned to face Orien.
From Orien’s words, Balin seemed to have been an honourable sort. She had gotten the same impression from the rider, too, when he spoke to Hisraad, threatened to punish the farmer next time they met. Barely any words were exchanged between her and Balin, and she knew of him only for the duration of the flight that was cut short by the three loud bangs that took the rider’s life. So Irene did not express her condolences and remained silent.
Honourable or not, Balin Passi remained a dragon rider. One that still had a son who would decide her fate and servants who wanted the murderer be brought to justice as soon as possible, even if it meant taking matters into their own hands.
Aren’t all in power full of themselves, anyway?
In other nations, and perhaps in this one too, one’s social status depended on where their ass was seated. A throne, a grand chair of plush leathers and ornaments, an encrusted in jewels carriage. All these indicated some wealth, some power. Dragon riders were no different, their backsides were just comfortably seated on the leather saddles of their dragons. No matter the chair, however, all shared the same attitude, the same outlook on life – they all were full of themselves, all driven by power.
Perhaps Balin was different. Perhaps his son was different. Not that it mattered, anyway. She was still wearing a leather collar and still awaiting the decision of whether or not her head is going to stay a part of her body, or roll on the ground.
But it was not the time or the place for this conversation, so Irene did not speak. There was no opportunity, anyway, as a Orien had called out to someone a short distance from them – a rider and a servant, both walking side by side. She watched them near and stop abruptly as the servant reached out and whispered something or other to the rider at her side.
Bold, that one. Irene did not know if she wanted to admire the servant for her courage, or think the girl – for she was a young woman, barely twenty years of age – to be naïve and daft for allowing herself such rude actions.
Some words reached Irene’s ears and she would have snorted at them had the situation been appropriate. As it was, she felt uncomfortable standing like this, out in the open. Her eyes kept darting from one shadow and towards another, a habit she thought to be long forgotten.
Irene did not wilt under the pressure of the looks given to her by both the dragon rider and the servant at his side. Instead she turned to face them and bowed towards the rider even before Orien had introduced him. Her back was straight, her head inclined forward and down.
Daft, Irene decided. The servant had to be daft, still too young to understand when to still her tongue and know her place. The girl joined the conversation with ease, and even snapped back at the rider at her side. Had it been Hisraad, the girl would have been dragged away to be flogged in the backyard.
But the rider snorted.
Surprised at having heard – for Irene was still bowing, her back bent forward in a sign of respect that she did not feel – such a reaction from a dragon rider, Irene looked up at stared at the man. It was at that moment that the rider looked back at Irene, his eyes narrowing in either anger or annoyance, or both.
She held his gaze as she straightened, the silver of her eyes looking into the green of the rider’s, unwavering.
“A pleasure to—“ There was a whistle in the air, and moments after Irene hissed through gritted teeth, stumbling forward, her back arched. Pain spread through her back, originating from a spot under her left shoulder blade. With a thump something fell onto the ground, clattering heavily against the stone beneath their feet.
Spots of white and red flashed before her vision, the pain so blinding and sudden that it took a moment to register what had caused it. The woman slouched forward, one hand raised towards her shoulder, and spun around. Her eyes darted over the ground where the wretched cobblestone lay on its side, and then she lifted her gaze to notice a flash of white. A servant stood there, on the path, panting heavily, their body twisted after having thrown the stone. The cheeks of the servant glistened in the sun, the tears running down in small thin rivers down her dark skin, her eyes pink and damp with moisture.
The servant whispered something, her plump lips moving to form a word that had been uttered more than once by those working in the Passi household.
Murderer.
Only now the irony was registered. To call Irene a murderer was akin to calling a dragon rider a selfless saint. It was impossible to imagine.
The dark skinned woman raised her other hand, her trembling fingers clutching a second stone, similar to the first that found its mark moments before. There were voices, both angry and shocked, as those around watched the scene unfold. No one moved, not yet.
“Orien,” Irene’s voice was quiet but steady, her eyes focused on the dark skinned servant. “Unless you want to see me stoned to death, we should leave. This can go badly.”
Slaves admired Balin, some worshipped him even. They all were devastated over his passing, they all needed someone to blame. Something, maybe common sense, kept their actions at bay. Kept them from carrying out a punishment that fit a murderer of their master. But only a small spark was needed to light a blazing fire. And the spark was standing right there, across the path from Irene, holding a stone that was being ready to be thrown.
The servant’s body twisted as she pulled back her arm, holding the stone so hard her nails scraped against the cobblestone. With trembling lips, she hissed something through gritted teeth, tears continued to glide down her smooth cheeks and fall onto the ground below and absorb into the collar of her clothing.
There was no sanity in the servant’s dark eyes. Nothing but anger and grief.
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FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Orien
Kydoimos Makhai
Mentioned
Mentioned
Galene
Mentioned
Mentioned
"Enreus be damned," Galene yelped as the stone hit its target, her own eyes wide. "What, has the world gone mad already? It's only a single man that is dead. There is no need to add more bodies to the count."
"Keep quiet," Kydoimos snapped back, their eyes blazing as the sound of metal scraped against metal and a sword was drawn. "You need to keep quiet."
"She's not really going to get stoned to death, is she?" Galene asked as Orien seized the bloodied servant's elbow and pulled her towards the bathhouse. "That would be very hard to scrub out of the stones, which is highly impractical. And, may I add, I'd think Hardeep would be the one that would like to kill her if she is guilty; having someone else do it beforehand would be very troublesome."
Orien glared at the younger girl for a second. Rumors had it she was royalty, a nation that had resisted Crubia's influence until the dragon riders scorched their armies and took her as punishment, as reminder that dragons were to be sated. Her accent was different, her words more polished, and her demeanor not of that for a slave. She acted as if she still wore fine silks, as if the riders were her peers instead of her owners. Her troublesome outlook made it difficult for many to reign her in and for plenty, she was the one that got the rest into some sort of trouble.
"The bathhouse is this way," Orien said, leading the woman past the other two, dressed in different colors and symbols.
"Do you really plan on cutting down that one?" Galene asked Kydoimos, referring to the fact that their sword was drawn.
"If it'll scare her off," Kydoimos muttered to Galene in a low voice.
The stone went sailing as Orien pulled the other slave around Galene and Kydoimos, missing its mark as Orien pushed the slave behind the other two and instead hit his arm. He winced but made no other movement. "Hopefully," he told the other slave in a low private voice, "the master will be here soon to quell any unrest."
"No murdering each other," Kydoimos called from behind them both. "You don't want to spill any more blood than already has."
"Revenge doesn't involve blood!" a servant shouted. A small chorus of agreements arose.
"Are you as daft as the farmers say?" Galene responded, glancing at the small crowd that was beginning to occur, surrounding the pathway to the bathhouse. They would not harm Kydoimos but Orien, the bloodied slave, and Galene were all fair game for their wrath. Kydoimos seized Galene's elbow and drew her closer to their body, sword still held out. Orien had paused behind the rider and took a step back as servants appeared in front of them.
"I don't think you'll be getting your bath," Galene told the bloodied servant.
"I don't think we're getting out of here," Kydoimos snapped.
"Killer!" someone else shouted.
"Killer!" someone repeated.
"I am far too young to die like this," Galene said matter-of-factly.
There was the sound of more feet, of rustling linen as people began scrambling for something to grad, something to seize and throw in the chaos and confusion.
"You won't die like this," Kydoimos said, though they did not sound confident.
"You won't," Galene responded, "I might. And so might Orien. And this one might as well, though I didn't catch your name. What was it?"
"This is not the time for that conversation," Orien hissed, sweat beading on his forehead. He doubted waving his hand at this point would do anything to solve the problem.
"Well, since we're going to die soon it's the time for any conversation. So what's your name?" Galene continued.
"Keep quiet," Kydoimos snapped back, their eyes blazing as the sound of metal scraped against metal and a sword was drawn. "You need to keep quiet."
"She's not really going to get stoned to death, is she?" Galene asked as Orien seized the bloodied servant's elbow and pulled her towards the bathhouse. "That would be very hard to scrub out of the stones, which is highly impractical. And, may I add, I'd think Hardeep would be the one that would like to kill her if she is guilty; having someone else do it beforehand would be very troublesome."
Orien glared at the younger girl for a second. Rumors had it she was royalty, a nation that had resisted Crubia's influence until the dragon riders scorched their armies and took her as punishment, as reminder that dragons were to be sated. Her accent was different, her words more polished, and her demeanor not of that for a slave. She acted as if she still wore fine silks, as if the riders were her peers instead of her owners. Her troublesome outlook made it difficult for many to reign her in and for plenty, she was the one that got the rest into some sort of trouble.
"The bathhouse is this way," Orien said, leading the woman past the other two, dressed in different colors and symbols.
"Do you really plan on cutting down that one?" Galene asked Kydoimos, referring to the fact that their sword was drawn.
"If it'll scare her off," Kydoimos muttered to Galene in a low voice.
The stone went sailing as Orien pulled the other slave around Galene and Kydoimos, missing its mark as Orien pushed the slave behind the other two and instead hit his arm. He winced but made no other movement. "Hopefully," he told the other slave in a low private voice, "the master will be here soon to quell any unrest."
"No murdering each other," Kydoimos called from behind them both. "You don't want to spill any more blood than already has."
"Revenge doesn't involve blood!" a servant shouted. A small chorus of agreements arose.
"Are you as daft as the farmers say?" Galene responded, glancing at the small crowd that was beginning to occur, surrounding the pathway to the bathhouse. They would not harm Kydoimos but Orien, the bloodied slave, and Galene were all fair game for their wrath. Kydoimos seized Galene's elbow and drew her closer to their body, sword still held out. Orien had paused behind the rider and took a step back as servants appeared in front of them.
"I don't think you'll be getting your bath," Galene told the bloodied servant.
"I don't think we're getting out of here," Kydoimos snapped.
"Killer!" someone else shouted.
"Killer!" someone repeated.
"I am far too young to die like this," Galene said matter-of-factly.
There was the sound of more feet, of rustling linen as people began scrambling for something to grad, something to seize and throw in the chaos and confusion.
"You won't die like this," Kydoimos said, though they did not sound confident.
"You won't," Galene responded, "I might. And so might Orien. And this one might as well, though I didn't catch your name. What was it?"
"This is not the time for that conversation," Orien hissed, sweat beading on his forehead. He doubted waving his hand at this point would do anything to solve the problem.
"Well, since we're going to die soon it's the time for any conversation. So what's your name?" Galene continued.
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
Irene stared at the dark skinned slave, careful not to move too abruptly and trigger the servant’s attack. Slowly did her feet shift over the stone, her knees bent, muscles tense as a wire, ready to spring into action the moment the servant’s arm twitched and her wrist was flicked, releasing the cobblestone that she clutched onto for dear life.
Behind her Kydoimos unsheathed his sword, the metal hissed as it slid out of the scabbard. The blade was useless against stones, not unless the rider was skilled to parry flying projectiles. A shield, that would have been perfect.
But there was no shield. No trees or walls to protect them. Kydoimos had his armour, the metal sturdy and masterfully crafted to protect him. The rest of the group, however was less fortunate.
Orien pulled Irene to the side and she followed him, her side still turned towards the servant who aimed the stone, twisting her body in preparation. Out of habit, Irene positioned herself between Orien and the dark skinned servant.
The girl, Galene, kept talking so casually one would have thought she was discussing something as trivial as the weather. Just as Orien, Irene glared at the young girl. The stone had hit Irene in the back, she was certain of it, as the reminder still spread through her core in spasms of electric fiery pain. Had she not been hit, and felt it, Irene would have thought that Galene had been hit on the head, instead.
“Try convincing her of impracticalities of the situation, then,” Irene groaned at Galene and jerked her chin at the dark skinned servant.
Orien led Irene away from the two and his hold wavered for a moment. The second cobblestone clattered against the ground heavily, rolled a few times and then stopped as it fell into a crevice in the ground between the stones. He spoke quietly under his breath, and Irene merely pressed her lips tightly in response.
The arrival of the master was not something she looked forward to. Primarily because it carried a chance of him cutting her down at the mere sight of his father’s blood clinging to the body of the newly dubbed Murderer.
Around them the crowd gathered and Irene lifted her hand to grab Orien’s arm, tugging him close to her as they continued down the path, their shoulders slouched and kept low in case more stones came flying their way. They were cut off as the crowd thickened and closed in, pushing both Irene and Orien towards the rider and the young girl.
Lovely.
They stepped back so close she brushed Kydoimos’s armour with her shoulder. There were too many people, too many to push away and reach the safety of the bathhouse. As they yelled and shouted the accusation at Irene their lips parted in a snarl, pulled back in a hideous expression of anger and disgust.
Irene’s own lips were pressed tightly, her jaw set and her eyes darted from one servant and to another, to their hands and the tools that they held. Some held some damp washcloths, others dropped the items in their possession and searched the ground for something to throw, something to attack the Killer with.
“A bath is the least of my concerns right now,” Irene whispered under her breath, her words drowned by the shouts that echoed through the courtyard.
In the chaos, that spread like wildfire, Irene realized that Galene, a slave girl with barely twenty summers past her brow, sounded the most confident out of the group.
The crowd wanted Irene. They wanted to see her bloody and beaten, punished with death as she was the main suspect for the murder of their bellowed master.
“You KILLED him!” The dark skinned servant yelled behind Irene, the servant’s words slurred with anger and desperation and tears, and she spat as she shouted. “Why? He was so kind. So good. Why take his life?” The woman was devastated, driven to the point of near insanity at the loss of the man that she so respected.
“I did not kill him,” Irene said as loudly as she could and it hurt to speak.
“Liar!” Someone shouted from the side and stone scraped against stone as a cobblestone was yanked from the ground.
“Murderer!”
The air whistled as a stone was thrown. It clanged loudly against Kydoimos’ armour and fell onto the ground. The servants, Mountain bury them, had bloody good aim. That stone hit a spot but an inch away from Irene’s arm.
Irene cursed vividly in Izmarian under her breath. The words would have made a well-travelled sailor blush.
The bathhouse was a so close, its door sturdy enough to withhold an angry mob. And there were only three servants between Irene and the bathhouse which could serve as a temporary refuge.
A second stone sailed at them and flew over their heads in an arch. More servants fell onto their knees and began to scratch against the cobblestones, their fingers shaking the stones to free them from the ground. Irene loosened the shawl around her right hand, the spotted with blood, dirt and sweat fabric swayed in the breeze.
“Irene. My name is Irene,” she said.
The servant before her fell onto his knees and reached to the stone at his feet. And just then, Irene moved and pulled Orien behind her. Her thin fingers wrapped painfully around his arm and yanked the man to stay close to her as she neared the servant on the path with damning speed. The servant looked up, his eyes wide and lips parted in a gasp, and then the shawl fell onto his head, slipped down, and pulled against his neck. The man lost his balance and fell onto his back as Irene passed him, shoving the man out of the way by having the shawl be pulled with her. The man’s back collided with the warm cobblestones just as Irene and Orien ran by, taking advantage of the momentary opening.
Just as the servant landed onto the ground, the bloody shawl wrapped around his neck like a noose, the chaos erupted around them. Air whistled as the stones sailed through it, aimed now not only at Irene but also at the rider and Galene. The servants had become crazy with revenge, given confidence and pushed by the actions of that one sole dark skinned woman who grieved Balin.
A stone grazed her calf, ripped a hole in the skirt of her gown. Another stone hit her side painfully, enough to make her grip on Orien’s arm loosen and a hiss escaped her lips. The bathhouse was so close. Just a bit more. Stones hit the road around them, the walls of the bathhouse, the people who fled towards the sole building that seemed to be safe enough to hide in. No doubt Orien got hit too, even if she pushed him closer to her in a poor attempt to cover him with her own shoulder.
Slaves look out for one another, after all.
Behind her Kydoimos unsheathed his sword, the metal hissed as it slid out of the scabbard. The blade was useless against stones, not unless the rider was skilled to parry flying projectiles. A shield, that would have been perfect.
But there was no shield. No trees or walls to protect them. Kydoimos had his armour, the metal sturdy and masterfully crafted to protect him. The rest of the group, however was less fortunate.
Orien pulled Irene to the side and she followed him, her side still turned towards the servant who aimed the stone, twisting her body in preparation. Out of habit, Irene positioned herself between Orien and the dark skinned servant.
The girl, Galene, kept talking so casually one would have thought she was discussing something as trivial as the weather. Just as Orien, Irene glared at the young girl. The stone had hit Irene in the back, she was certain of it, as the reminder still spread through her core in spasms of electric fiery pain. Had she not been hit, and felt it, Irene would have thought that Galene had been hit on the head, instead.
“Try convincing her of impracticalities of the situation, then,” Irene groaned at Galene and jerked her chin at the dark skinned servant.
Orien led Irene away from the two and his hold wavered for a moment. The second cobblestone clattered against the ground heavily, rolled a few times and then stopped as it fell into a crevice in the ground between the stones. He spoke quietly under his breath, and Irene merely pressed her lips tightly in response.
The arrival of the master was not something she looked forward to. Primarily because it carried a chance of him cutting her down at the mere sight of his father’s blood clinging to the body of the newly dubbed Murderer.
Around them the crowd gathered and Irene lifted her hand to grab Orien’s arm, tugging him close to her as they continued down the path, their shoulders slouched and kept low in case more stones came flying their way. They were cut off as the crowd thickened and closed in, pushing both Irene and Orien towards the rider and the young girl.
Lovely.
They stepped back so close she brushed Kydoimos’s armour with her shoulder. There were too many people, too many to push away and reach the safety of the bathhouse. As they yelled and shouted the accusation at Irene their lips parted in a snarl, pulled back in a hideous expression of anger and disgust.
Irene’s own lips were pressed tightly, her jaw set and her eyes darted from one servant and to another, to their hands and the tools that they held. Some held some damp washcloths, others dropped the items in their possession and searched the ground for something to throw, something to attack the Killer with.
“A bath is the least of my concerns right now,” Irene whispered under her breath, her words drowned by the shouts that echoed through the courtyard.
In the chaos, that spread like wildfire, Irene realized that Galene, a slave girl with barely twenty summers past her brow, sounded the most confident out of the group.
The crowd wanted Irene. They wanted to see her bloody and beaten, punished with death as she was the main suspect for the murder of their bellowed master.
“You KILLED him!” The dark skinned servant yelled behind Irene, the servant’s words slurred with anger and desperation and tears, and she spat as she shouted. “Why? He was so kind. So good. Why take his life?” The woman was devastated, driven to the point of near insanity at the loss of the man that she so respected.
“I did not kill him,” Irene said as loudly as she could and it hurt to speak.
“Liar!” Someone shouted from the side and stone scraped against stone as a cobblestone was yanked from the ground.
“Murderer!”
The air whistled as a stone was thrown. It clanged loudly against Kydoimos’ armour and fell onto the ground. The servants, Mountain bury them, had bloody good aim. That stone hit a spot but an inch away from Irene’s arm.
Irene cursed vividly in Izmarian under her breath. The words would have made a well-travelled sailor blush.
The bathhouse was a so close, its door sturdy enough to withhold an angry mob. And there were only three servants between Irene and the bathhouse which could serve as a temporary refuge.
A second stone sailed at them and flew over their heads in an arch. More servants fell onto their knees and began to scratch against the cobblestones, their fingers shaking the stones to free them from the ground. Irene loosened the shawl around her right hand, the spotted with blood, dirt and sweat fabric swayed in the breeze.
“Irene. My name is Irene,” she said.
The servant before her fell onto his knees and reached to the stone at his feet. And just then, Irene moved and pulled Orien behind her. Her thin fingers wrapped painfully around his arm and yanked the man to stay close to her as she neared the servant on the path with damning speed. The servant looked up, his eyes wide and lips parted in a gasp, and then the shawl fell onto his head, slipped down, and pulled against his neck. The man lost his balance and fell onto his back as Irene passed him, shoving the man out of the way by having the shawl be pulled with her. The man’s back collided with the warm cobblestones just as Irene and Orien ran by, taking advantage of the momentary opening.
Just as the servant landed onto the ground, the bloody shawl wrapped around his neck like a noose, the chaos erupted around them. Air whistled as the stones sailed through it, aimed now not only at Irene but also at the rider and Galene. The servants had become crazy with revenge, given confidence and pushed by the actions of that one sole dark skinned woman who grieved Balin.
A stone grazed her calf, ripped a hole in the skirt of her gown. Another stone hit her side painfully, enough to make her grip on Orien’s arm loosen and a hiss escaped her lips. The bathhouse was so close. Just a bit more. Stones hit the road around them, the walls of the bathhouse, the people who fled towards the sole building that seemed to be safe enough to hide in. No doubt Orien got hit too, even if she pushed him closer to her in a poor attempt to cover him with her own shoulder.
Slaves look out for one another, after all.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Hardeep Passi
Zyrell Makhai
Mentioned
Mentioned
The wind was blowing a cool breeze through the streets of Nuru as Hardeep walked them, humming to himself. He had a small smile on his face as his sword clinked against his belt, his feet taking him where ever it was that his destination was. He enjoyed days like this, days of peace and quiet where nothing was around to disturb him. He breathed in the smell of freshly baked goods as he passed by stalls where merchants were hauling out their latest catch, trying to convince him to step inside and spend a few of his coins, heavy in his pocket. He paused by one stall, where there were a few loaves of fresh baked bread. He smiled at the baker and pulled out his pouch, giving him a few golden coins before taking the bread and breaking a bit off, popping it into his mouth. A few other stalls were selling creatures from far away, little monkeys scampering about, birds squawking in their bright colors, and a cat or dog staring at him with wide eyes. He smiled at them all, waved his fingers at the creatures as they stared hungrily at his bread and at his armor which glinted in the sunlight.
Hardeep enjoyed his walks; the way the sun seemed to drench him in its warm rays, the way eyes would turn to gaze at the symbol on his armor, the way he was the center of the world, or at least this little corner of the world.
He paused by another shop that was selling liquor and pondered for a second. He wasn't sure how much more of the datewine was left in their household, but everything was improved by datewine. Besides, his father was never one to say no to datewine, especially the ones imported from afar with spices that they would sit around the table trying to pronounce, laughing to themselves. He smiled at the memory.
Hardeep was about to enter the shop to buy some when a cry went out. He turned and saw a shape in the distance, small, like a bird, flying around and around and around.
It was a strange path for a bird.
Then the creature turned and dove in a direction he was far too familiar with.
Something sank into his stomach and he started walking, pushing his way through crowds on his way to his home, the loaf of bread still clutched in one hand as his feet picked up pace, hitting the hard stone loudly as the civilians began murmuring to one another, turning their faces to gossip and whisper about the dragon in the sky that had suddenly gone berserk.
Hardeep took nearly ten minutes to make his way back out of the city, towards the corner where his family lived, where there was so much commotion and action, where there were movements like waves out in the paths lining his family's estate.
He walked towards it, turning his head to and fro as he tried for an explanation. A servant caught his arm and he turned to stare, their eyes wide.
"Sir--" they began.
"What's going on, what happened?" Hardeep demanded, trying to walk forward.
"Sir, Sir Zyrell asked me to take you to him--"
"Why? Why is Zyrell here?" Hardeep asked, continuing to move forward.
"Sir, you must know--"
Voices began to reach his ears, voices screaming in anguish and anger and chanting words that he didn't want to hear.
"Hardeep!" a familiar voice shouted and he turned to see Zyrell staring at him, apparently walking towards the commotion. He ran to approach the rider, seizing the other man's arm.
"What's happened, what's going on?" he said as bile filed his throat.
"Hardeep, I am sorry but--"
There were sounds to their left and he turned to see servants moving, chasing, pushing against one another to get somewhere. Zyrell stepped beside him, turning so that he could face Hardeep fully. "Look at me," he commanded.
He turned to stare at the older man, the noise of servants, of anguish, leaving him for a second.
"Hardeep," he said, his voice low and full of sorrow, "your father is dead."
The world went silent.
Then the noise came back, louder than it was before and he could hear the servants screaming, hear things being throw and smashed and he turned to stare at them, turned to look at anything but Zyrell and the truth that he had brought, the truth he did not want and had never hoped for.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE GODS IS GOING ON?" Hardeep bellowed, releasing Zyrell and moving towards the mass. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" The servants turned and a few screamed and somehow, his sword had been drawn without him even realizing it and he marched towards them, teeth gritted and fire burning in his veins. The slaves and servants closest to him scattered, pressing themselves up against walls and staring at their new master, stared at him as he brandished his weapon, slicing at linen and skin and causing blood to splatter against stone. He did not seem to hear the shouts of agony or the cries of shock. The world had turned to dust in his mouth and the loaf of bread dropped from his hand as he approached the center of the circle, staring down two figures. He pointed the end of his sword at them, already dripping with blood.
"What the hell is the meaning of all this?" he growled.
Hardeep enjoyed his walks; the way the sun seemed to drench him in its warm rays, the way eyes would turn to gaze at the symbol on his armor, the way he was the center of the world, or at least this little corner of the world.
He paused by another shop that was selling liquor and pondered for a second. He wasn't sure how much more of the datewine was left in their household, but everything was improved by datewine. Besides, his father was never one to say no to datewine, especially the ones imported from afar with spices that they would sit around the table trying to pronounce, laughing to themselves. He smiled at the memory.
Hardeep was about to enter the shop to buy some when a cry went out. He turned and saw a shape in the distance, small, like a bird, flying around and around and around.
It was a strange path for a bird.
Then the creature turned and dove in a direction he was far too familiar with.
Something sank into his stomach and he started walking, pushing his way through crowds on his way to his home, the loaf of bread still clutched in one hand as his feet picked up pace, hitting the hard stone loudly as the civilians began murmuring to one another, turning their faces to gossip and whisper about the dragon in the sky that had suddenly gone berserk.
Hardeep took nearly ten minutes to make his way back out of the city, towards the corner where his family lived, where there was so much commotion and action, where there were movements like waves out in the paths lining his family's estate.
He walked towards it, turning his head to and fro as he tried for an explanation. A servant caught his arm and he turned to stare, their eyes wide.
"Sir--" they began.
"What's going on, what happened?" Hardeep demanded, trying to walk forward.
"Sir, Sir Zyrell asked me to take you to him--"
"Why? Why is Zyrell here?" Hardeep asked, continuing to move forward.
"Sir, you must know--"
Voices began to reach his ears, voices screaming in anguish and anger and chanting words that he didn't want to hear.
"Hardeep!" a familiar voice shouted and he turned to see Zyrell staring at him, apparently walking towards the commotion. He ran to approach the rider, seizing the other man's arm.
"What's happened, what's going on?" he said as bile filed his throat.
"Hardeep, I am sorry but--"
There were sounds to their left and he turned to see servants moving, chasing, pushing against one another to get somewhere. Zyrell stepped beside him, turning so that he could face Hardeep fully. "Look at me," he commanded.
He turned to stare at the older man, the noise of servants, of anguish, leaving him for a second.
"Hardeep," he said, his voice low and full of sorrow, "your father is dead."
The world went silent.
Then the noise came back, louder than it was before and he could hear the servants screaming, hear things being throw and smashed and he turned to stare at them, turned to look at anything but Zyrell and the truth that he had brought, the truth he did not want and had never hoped for.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE GODS IS GOING ON?" Hardeep bellowed, releasing Zyrell and moving towards the mass. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" The servants turned and a few screamed and somehow, his sword had been drawn without him even realizing it and he marched towards them, teeth gritted and fire burning in his veins. The slaves and servants closest to him scattered, pressing themselves up against walls and staring at their new master, stared at him as he brandished his weapon, slicing at linen and skin and causing blood to splatter against stone. He did not seem to hear the shouts of agony or the cries of shock. The world had turned to dust in his mouth and the loaf of bread dropped from his hand as he approached the center of the circle, staring down two figures. He pointed the end of his sword at them, already dripping with blood.
"What the hell is the meaning of all this?" he growled.
Kydoimos Makhai
Galene
Mentioned
Mentioned
Kydoimos realized too late that there was no getting out of the circle. Galene's unshakable casualness was not helping either and too late they realized that the slave (her name was Irene, apparently, thanks to Galene) had disappeared with Orien. They made a move to follow but the others had already turned to stare at the two, to raise their fists with rocks and pelt them. They winced as a few bounced off the back of Orien and wished them both luck.
"You're destroying the road," Galene cried by their side, staring at them with shock in her eyes. "Why are you destroying the road? It will not bring Balin back, nor will it find you any hope. What are you planning on finding underneath the stone, the elixir of life? It's a legend, if you fools are truly searching for it."
"Why are you trying to reason with them?" Kydoimos growled, shuffling towards the mob in an effort to stumble out. They were pressing on all sides, making it hard for them to move. The rocks were slamming into their armor and they winced as one scraped by Galene's arm. The younger girl tutted in response.
"I have dealt with you for three years now," the girl said, "I have learned that reason penetrates even the thickest of skulls."
"Funny," Kydoimos shot back, "I would have said the same for you."
"And perhaps it can be applied to both of us, though the more we stand here and are -- oomph."
They whirled around to see her doubled over, rubbing her stomach and a stone by her feet.
"Get over here," they growled and pulled her closer into their embrace, pressing her against their chest and throwing an arm over their body.
"As flattering as this probably is," Galene wheezed, still somehow with some wit in her skull, "I would think my face would be the thing needing protecting at this point in time?"
"Shut it," Kydoimos snapped, their sword useless. They would not hurt another slave or servant and no one seemed to notice it as they scrabbled at the ground. They moved their arm so that their gloves hand covered the back of Galene's head as she pressed against them.
"Fools," she hissed, her voice angry to their surprise. "Think that killing a supposed killer will be justice?"
"The greatest justice in death is that we all will reach it one day," Kydoimos offered dryly, lifting up their swordhand to shield their own face as a few rocks sailed their way.
"Ah yes, ever the philosopher I see," Galene replied, her fingers digging into their armor. "Quite useful, as always I see."
"Shut up," Kydoimos hissed.
"I retract my first statement."
"How the hell are you so calm?"
"Sold into slavery, remember? I've learned that no amount of screaming or kicking helps you when you are outnumbered and outgunned-- which is pathetic in our situation since it is stone that is-- Yla help me, what is with these people and their aim?" Galene hissed as a stone met her back.
"I do not know," Kydoimos said, wincing as a piece scratched their cheek. "I would think they would not attack me."
"I cannot decide if you are more foolish to assume that or they are more foolish to forget that you are a rider."
"I would think it is you that is most foolish, given that you're the one who decided to stick with me instead of run with the other two."
"Who else was going to keep you company to your grave?" Galene sniffed.
Kydoimos swore as a stone clanked against their hand, where it lay against Galene's head. They felt her stiffen against them and wondered if she could feel how tense they were under the armor, gazing out into the sea of faces and anger, trying to figure out a way out. They were probably still aiming for the two that had run, but they also seemed not to care if they hit the rider and the slave that had not done much.
A familiar voice, a shout, and the cries became different. The stones slowed and the mob weaved away and suddenly Hardeep was there, his hair still as smooth as it was every day.
Except his eyes were wild and the blade was already dripping with blood (whose blood, Kydoimos would not want to think about) and his teeth were bared and glinting like a hungry dragon's.
"This?" Galene asked, trying to pry herself away from Kydoimos, who only pointed their own sword at Hardeep and tried to keep the girl from squirming away, into the path of someone who they would assume was as bad as the slave mob itself. "This is an embrace, sir, one designed to--"
"SHUT UP," Hardeep bellowed and Galene fell quiet, finally standing next to Kydoimos instead of within their arms. She glanced cautiously at the other and they slowly lowered their sword, sheathing it.
"What the hell is the meaning of this?"
"Your father arrived with a slave on their back--" Galene began before Kydoimos elbowed her harshly. Hardeep had already moved towards her, sword still in hand and seized the front of her dress, lifting her towards his face, his breath hot.
"Flattered," Galene grunted as Kydoimos looked on, their hand still clutching their sword tightly and their eyes watching, "but I am uninterested in you."
"Shut your whore mouth," Hardeep spat and Galene's face twisted into one of anger at being insulted. Kydoimos wished they could shut her up. "Where is the slave?"
"No," Galene offered.
"Galene," Kydoimos hissed in response.
"I could slit your throat here," Hardeep spat.
"Pay for my life then," Galene challenged.
"Galene," Kydoimos said once more.
"I wouldn't need to," Hardeep said with a sneer, "your tongue is all you are worth and even then, I'm sure your masters would enjoy it getting cut out."
"I'm sure some here would enjoy seeing yours cut out," Galene snarled back, "given how you don't seem to be able to do anything useful with it."
"GALENE," Kydoimos shouted.
Hardeep turned to stare at them.
"They're in the bathhouse," they said weakly.
Galene glared at them as she was released.
"Know your place," Hardeep spat at her.
"Know yours," Galene responded, folding her arms over her chest. "You're supposed to protect, remember?"
Hardeep turned around to stare at her. "My father remembered," he said icily, "and he is now dead."
For once, Galene was silent.
"Come," Zyrell said, leaning in to touch his sibling on the shoulder, "let us go inside and get you two looked after."
Kydoimos followed and Galene did after another moment, casting a glance at Hardeep's retreating figure.
"He'll kill her," Galene said. She paused for a moment.
"At least I got to know her name."
"You're destroying the road," Galene cried by their side, staring at them with shock in her eyes. "Why are you destroying the road? It will not bring Balin back, nor will it find you any hope. What are you planning on finding underneath the stone, the elixir of life? It's a legend, if you fools are truly searching for it."
"Why are you trying to reason with them?" Kydoimos growled, shuffling towards the mob in an effort to stumble out. They were pressing on all sides, making it hard for them to move. The rocks were slamming into their armor and they winced as one scraped by Galene's arm. The younger girl tutted in response.
"I have dealt with you for three years now," the girl said, "I have learned that reason penetrates even the thickest of skulls."
"Funny," Kydoimos shot back, "I would have said the same for you."
"And perhaps it can be applied to both of us, though the more we stand here and are -- oomph."
They whirled around to see her doubled over, rubbing her stomach and a stone by her feet.
"Get over here," they growled and pulled her closer into their embrace, pressing her against their chest and throwing an arm over their body.
"As flattering as this probably is," Galene wheezed, still somehow with some wit in her skull, "I would think my face would be the thing needing protecting at this point in time?"
"Shut it," Kydoimos snapped, their sword useless. They would not hurt another slave or servant and no one seemed to notice it as they scrabbled at the ground. They moved their arm so that their gloves hand covered the back of Galene's head as she pressed against them.
"Fools," she hissed, her voice angry to their surprise. "Think that killing a supposed killer will be justice?"
"The greatest justice in death is that we all will reach it one day," Kydoimos offered dryly, lifting up their swordhand to shield their own face as a few rocks sailed their way.
"Ah yes, ever the philosopher I see," Galene replied, her fingers digging into their armor. "Quite useful, as always I see."
"Shut up," Kydoimos hissed.
"I retract my first statement."
"How the hell are you so calm?"
"Sold into slavery, remember? I've learned that no amount of screaming or kicking helps you when you are outnumbered and outgunned-- which is pathetic in our situation since it is stone that is-- Yla help me, what is with these people and their aim?" Galene hissed as a stone met her back.
"I do not know," Kydoimos said, wincing as a piece scratched their cheek. "I would think they would not attack me."
"I cannot decide if you are more foolish to assume that or they are more foolish to forget that you are a rider."
"I would think it is you that is most foolish, given that you're the one who decided to stick with me instead of run with the other two."
"Who else was going to keep you company to your grave?" Galene sniffed.
Kydoimos swore as a stone clanked against their hand, where it lay against Galene's head. They felt her stiffen against them and wondered if she could feel how tense they were under the armor, gazing out into the sea of faces and anger, trying to figure out a way out. They were probably still aiming for the two that had run, but they also seemed not to care if they hit the rider and the slave that had not done much.
A familiar voice, a shout, and the cries became different. The stones slowed and the mob weaved away and suddenly Hardeep was there, his hair still as smooth as it was every day.
Except his eyes were wild and the blade was already dripping with blood (whose blood, Kydoimos would not want to think about) and his teeth were bared and glinting like a hungry dragon's.
"This?" Galene asked, trying to pry herself away from Kydoimos, who only pointed their own sword at Hardeep and tried to keep the girl from squirming away, into the path of someone who they would assume was as bad as the slave mob itself. "This is an embrace, sir, one designed to--"
"SHUT UP," Hardeep bellowed and Galene fell quiet, finally standing next to Kydoimos instead of within their arms. She glanced cautiously at the other and they slowly lowered their sword, sheathing it.
"What the hell is the meaning of this?"
"Your father arrived with a slave on their back--" Galene began before Kydoimos elbowed her harshly. Hardeep had already moved towards her, sword still in hand and seized the front of her dress, lifting her towards his face, his breath hot.
"Flattered," Galene grunted as Kydoimos looked on, their hand still clutching their sword tightly and their eyes watching, "but I am uninterested in you."
"Shut your whore mouth," Hardeep spat and Galene's face twisted into one of anger at being insulted. Kydoimos wished they could shut her up. "Where is the slave?"
"No," Galene offered.
"Galene," Kydoimos hissed in response.
"I could slit your throat here," Hardeep spat.
"Pay for my life then," Galene challenged.
"Galene," Kydoimos said once more.
"I wouldn't need to," Hardeep said with a sneer, "your tongue is all you are worth and even then, I'm sure your masters would enjoy it getting cut out."
"I'm sure some here would enjoy seeing yours cut out," Galene snarled back, "given how you don't seem to be able to do anything useful with it."
"GALENE," Kydoimos shouted.
Hardeep turned to stare at them.
"They're in the bathhouse," they said weakly.
Galene glared at them as she was released.
"Know your place," Hardeep spat at her.
"Know yours," Galene responded, folding her arms over her chest. "You're supposed to protect, remember?"
Hardeep turned around to stare at her. "My father remembered," he said icily, "and he is now dead."
For once, Galene was silent.
"Come," Zyrell said, leaning in to touch his sibling on the shoulder, "let us go inside and get you two looked after."
Kydoimos followed and Galene did after another moment, casting a glance at Hardeep's retreating figure.
"He'll kill her," Galene said. She paused for a moment.
"At least I got to know her name."
Orien
Orien grunted as he was dragged along by the other slave, a hand coming up to block his face from the rocks as they sailed towards him. Chants of "killer", "murderer" filled the air and he clutched at an ear in a failed attempt at making it stop. He felt his back begin to burn as the rocks bounced off it, thrown at every direction without a care for who they hit.
Fools, he thought. Kydoimos could have their heads if they (or Galene) was harmed and he was sure that Hardeep would have to comply in some manner if the damage was severe. Where was Hardeep, anyways? Where was his fool of a master?[/font]
"Quickly," Orien said, even though he was sure Irene already knew the objective, what to do as the door to the bathhouse approached.
He was jostled towards her as she pulled him along, the stones raining from every which way. He reached forward, lunging beyond the other slave, and gripped the handle, yanking the door open and shoving the other inside before disappearing in himself, slamming it shut and leaning against it. Something dribbled down his back, blood or sweat he could not be sure. He stood up, breathing heavily, and turned to stare at the bathhouse.
The water was still in the sunken pit in the middle of the room and there were still candles lit. Any servants must have already left (to try and kill Irene, probably, or see Balin before he was laid to rest) for it was empty.
"I suppose we can wash ourselves," Orien said, glancing back at the door as he felt bodies press against it. He leaned against the wood, grunting slightly. "Or we can just stand here and ensure our corpses are not found inside," he offered.
He regretted being the one to get the slave from the building.
After what felt like years, he heard a voice, heard a few shouts, heard Hardeep, of all people, finally begin to work his wrath through the land. He heard the sound of feet scuttling away, disappearing from the door and he stood up slowly, staring at it. Would he like what was on the other side?
It was yanked open within a moment, however, and he had no choice but to stare at his master, eyes blazing and hair disheveled as if he had run a mile.
Glancing downwards, Orien could see the sword he carried, glimmering with crimson.
He swallowed thickly and gazed back at Hardeep.
"Where is it?" the man spat.
Orien offered no answer and Hardeep shoved past him.
"WHERE IS IT?"
Fools, he thought. Kydoimos could have their heads if they (or Galene) was harmed and he was sure that Hardeep would have to comply in some manner if the damage was severe. Where was Hardeep, anyways? Where was his fool of a master?[/font]
"Quickly," Orien said, even though he was sure Irene already knew the objective, what to do as the door to the bathhouse approached.
He was jostled towards her as she pulled him along, the stones raining from every which way. He reached forward, lunging beyond the other slave, and gripped the handle, yanking the door open and shoving the other inside before disappearing in himself, slamming it shut and leaning against it. Something dribbled down his back, blood or sweat he could not be sure. He stood up, breathing heavily, and turned to stare at the bathhouse.
The water was still in the sunken pit in the middle of the room and there were still candles lit. Any servants must have already left (to try and kill Irene, probably, or see Balin before he was laid to rest) for it was empty.
"I suppose we can wash ourselves," Orien said, glancing back at the door as he felt bodies press against it. He leaned against the wood, grunting slightly. "Or we can just stand here and ensure our corpses are not found inside," he offered.
He regretted being the one to get the slave from the building.
After what felt like years, he heard a voice, heard a few shouts, heard Hardeep, of all people, finally begin to work his wrath through the land. He heard the sound of feet scuttling away, disappearing from the door and he stood up slowly, staring at it. Would he like what was on the other side?
It was yanked open within a moment, however, and he had no choice but to stare at his master, eyes blazing and hair disheveled as if he had run a mile.
Glancing downwards, Orien could see the sword he carried, glimmering with crimson.
He swallowed thickly and gazed back at Hardeep.
"Where is it?" the man spat.
Orien offered no answer and Hardeep shoved past him.
"WHERE IS IT?"
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
Rocks rained around them. The cobblestones clattered against the ground, the walls of the bathhouse as they sailed in high arches above the heads of the retreating woman and man. Slumped low they ran without looking back, one dragging the other and forcing him to be pushed ahead. Irene’s other arm was raised towards her face but vertically, hand covering the back of her head, as if she was blocking a punch instead of large rocks.
The servants threw the rocks without stopping, yanking whatever was in the road and then thrown at the figures as they ran down the path towards a safe house. With equal determination, Irene ignored the pain in her back that had become numb.
The way the woman moved was…strange. Fluid, like water. She was gliding over the road, the skirt of her gown sweeping around her feet. The clothing rustled as the stones hit it, ripping some holes in the gown, in the sides of it, exposing the skin beneath. Unlike Orien, who got hit the most, Irene had felt only some stones graze her skin and hit her flat in the back. Otherwise, she made herself to be a much smaller target and aimed to protect Orien, even if poorly.
Killer.
Murderer.
The irony did not escape her. When was the last time she had killed a man? Five years ago, if not more. If, by some miracle, her life was spared by Balin’s son, if she was not stoned to death, if no accident claimed her life once she was given a spot in the Passi household, the name of Murderer would follow her. People always needed someone to blame. Without the true murderer brought to justice, the servants of this household would always blame Irene, always demand she paid for the deed with her life.
Irene the Killer.
Leon would have cracked a laugh. He probably was, while watching from above the Mountain.
As the door was yanked open and then slammed closed after she was pushed into the bathhouse, Orien at her heels, Irene wondered if running here was worth it.
No. It is worth it.
The woman turned and looked at the man, both panting heavily and both pale, their faces drained of colour. Orien’s features were kind, his eyes soft. They reminded her of Rael, her closest friend and confidant, one whom she had not seen in over four years now and did not know if he was still alive.
Orien was not dragged here by mistake or out of fear for letting go of him as he was the closest to her. Neither was he dragged to the bathhouse out of the goodness of her heart. Hisraad had done a remarkable job in beating out the kindness out of her a year ago. No, Orien was dragged here for one purpose – speak for her. He was close to someone in this household, and Irene hoped it was a member of the family. She could not let him be stoned to death by the angry mob outside because of this very reason.
Living a life of a mercenary years ago had taught her much. Having been bought into Hisraad’s estate only forced her to utilize skills that she always found to be corrupt and sly. But lying and manipulation, show of power, was enough to warrant survival in this world.
And she hated herself for it. Hated herself for thinking such despicable thoughts of using Orien as a shield, as a way to ensure her survival.
Something thumped hard against the door and it rattled, the hinges shaking. Galene and Kydoimos were not in the bathhouse.
“Dying in a bathtub would be unfortunate, no?” There was laughter laced in the woman’s words as she spoke, finding humour in a situation where there should have been done.
Irene Dalaklis, a sword for hire by trade, a bodyguard for Vladimir Volinskiy of Belsz, the Jarl of Vellanmar, a guard for many nobles from influential families of Riverside, a companion and friend to traveling merchants of every calibre; a woman skilled in spear wielding, in many languages and arts; the protégé of Leon Dalaklis, the Crown’s Captain of the Royal Guard of Izmar. Nearly stoned to death by an angry mob of slaves. It was a fate she never imagined for herself. It was a fate as absurd as being sold into slavery.
Perhaps, a rock hit her on the head and she was losing it completely.
Turning away from Orien, who had pressed his back hard against the rumbling door, Irene looked around the bathhouse. It was not big, a building consisting of a main room that branched into smaller sections at the sides and across from the main entrance. In one of such smaller sections, closed off from the main basin by cotton screen partitions, stood a dresser of light crème coloured wood. It looked small enough to be moved, and heavy enough to be propped against the door as a last line of defence from the angry mob.
Candlelight flickered as Irene passed the basin in the middle, and entered the room to the right where the dresser stood. There were some benches there, too, with carefully folded cotton towels and baskets full of herb smelling soaps and washcloths. On top of the dresser were some other baskets, all woven together tightly with expert hands, and held small clay vials of soap.
And there, at the edge of the dresser, was a hair comb. A thin little thing it was, carved from bone into three teeth on one end; the shaft was worn and thin, but sharp.
She had stopped carrying a blade after the kitchen knife was found in her possession by Uma’s daughter. The child ran to her mother immediately, happy to have found an item they thought lost, and also proud of themselves for having given a reason for a slave to be flogged. Since then the two deep scars on Irene’s back, a pair amongst many others that criss-crossed her skin, were a reminder not to carry a weapon.
Maybe now it was time for a change.
“We can block the door with the dresser,” Irene called out as she picked up the comb and watched the bone reflect the soft orange candlelight behind the woman.
She did not hear Orien’s reply, as that was when the door was yanked open. Noises from the outside had died off, and she could have sworn someone’s screams had reached her ears through the stone walls of the bathhouse. Irene passed them off at first as angry shouting, yelping as the slaves pushed one another to be the first ones to reach the Murderer.
Irene picked up the comb the moment someone’s voice echoed through the empty bathhouse. Light pooled into the room, stretching the shadows of those standing in the doorway. Two men. The woman did not move from the spot by the dresser and watched the shadows shift on the floor, distorted as they curved into the pit in the middle of the room. Her hand dove into the folds of her skirt, clutching the comb by its end where the teeth were sticking out, the shaft pressed parallel to her wrist that was hidden by the linen.
When the man shouted Irene stepped away from the dresser and turned, letting the light fall onto her. Bloody, bruised, dirty, with a torn skirt at her ankles and one side of her gown at the waist ripped where the stone cut it open, revealing the tanned skin beneath. She stood with her side to the one who shouted, still hiding the comb in her hand.
The man was a dark silhouette against the sun. The purple of his armour shined like amethysts in the sunrays and the steel of his sword glowed in a blinding light coated crimson.
At seeing the blood on the blade Irene halted. That is why the slaves were screaming outside.
This man was not going to listen to her, or Orien. He was not going to listen to anyone. The anger in his voice was enough to convey the decision already made up in the man’s mind. He was going to kill her, avenge the death of his father as the armour and the symbol woven into the piece of cloth on his body was enough to guess that this was the new head of the Passi household.
Irene did not reply to his question as it echoed through the room. She stared at the man, standing utterly still but tense. There was nothing to say.
Sorry your father is dead? He got shot? Don’t kill me I can explain? Neither seemed convincing enough to stop the armoured man from killing her if he so wished.
But her mind urged Irene to not stand still and wait to be cut down, especially not for a deed that she was did not commit.
“I did not kill him,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady but quiet, a mere whisper.
The servants threw the rocks without stopping, yanking whatever was in the road and then thrown at the figures as they ran down the path towards a safe house. With equal determination, Irene ignored the pain in her back that had become numb.
The way the woman moved was…strange. Fluid, like water. She was gliding over the road, the skirt of her gown sweeping around her feet. The clothing rustled as the stones hit it, ripping some holes in the gown, in the sides of it, exposing the skin beneath. Unlike Orien, who got hit the most, Irene had felt only some stones graze her skin and hit her flat in the back. Otherwise, she made herself to be a much smaller target and aimed to protect Orien, even if poorly.
Killer.
Murderer.
The irony did not escape her. When was the last time she had killed a man? Five years ago, if not more. If, by some miracle, her life was spared by Balin’s son, if she was not stoned to death, if no accident claimed her life once she was given a spot in the Passi household, the name of Murderer would follow her. People always needed someone to blame. Without the true murderer brought to justice, the servants of this household would always blame Irene, always demand she paid for the deed with her life.
Irene the Killer.
Leon would have cracked a laugh. He probably was, while watching from above the Mountain.
As the door was yanked open and then slammed closed after she was pushed into the bathhouse, Orien at her heels, Irene wondered if running here was worth it.
No. It is worth it.
The woman turned and looked at the man, both panting heavily and both pale, their faces drained of colour. Orien’s features were kind, his eyes soft. They reminded her of Rael, her closest friend and confidant, one whom she had not seen in over four years now and did not know if he was still alive.
Orien was not dragged here by mistake or out of fear for letting go of him as he was the closest to her. Neither was he dragged to the bathhouse out of the goodness of her heart. Hisraad had done a remarkable job in beating out the kindness out of her a year ago. No, Orien was dragged here for one purpose – speak for her. He was close to someone in this household, and Irene hoped it was a member of the family. She could not let him be stoned to death by the angry mob outside because of this very reason.
Living a life of a mercenary years ago had taught her much. Having been bought into Hisraad’s estate only forced her to utilize skills that she always found to be corrupt and sly. But lying and manipulation, show of power, was enough to warrant survival in this world.
And she hated herself for it. Hated herself for thinking such despicable thoughts of using Orien as a shield, as a way to ensure her survival.
Something thumped hard against the door and it rattled, the hinges shaking. Galene and Kydoimos were not in the bathhouse.
“Dying in a bathtub would be unfortunate, no?” There was laughter laced in the woman’s words as she spoke, finding humour in a situation where there should have been done.
Irene Dalaklis, a sword for hire by trade, a bodyguard for Vladimir Volinskiy of Belsz, the Jarl of Vellanmar, a guard for many nobles from influential families of Riverside, a companion and friend to traveling merchants of every calibre; a woman skilled in spear wielding, in many languages and arts; the protégé of Leon Dalaklis, the Crown’s Captain of the Royal Guard of Izmar. Nearly stoned to death by an angry mob of slaves. It was a fate she never imagined for herself. It was a fate as absurd as being sold into slavery.
Perhaps, a rock hit her on the head and she was losing it completely.
Turning away from Orien, who had pressed his back hard against the rumbling door, Irene looked around the bathhouse. It was not big, a building consisting of a main room that branched into smaller sections at the sides and across from the main entrance. In one of such smaller sections, closed off from the main basin by cotton screen partitions, stood a dresser of light crème coloured wood. It looked small enough to be moved, and heavy enough to be propped against the door as a last line of defence from the angry mob.
Candlelight flickered as Irene passed the basin in the middle, and entered the room to the right where the dresser stood. There were some benches there, too, with carefully folded cotton towels and baskets full of herb smelling soaps and washcloths. On top of the dresser were some other baskets, all woven together tightly with expert hands, and held small clay vials of soap.
And there, at the edge of the dresser, was a hair comb. A thin little thing it was, carved from bone into three teeth on one end; the shaft was worn and thin, but sharp.
She had stopped carrying a blade after the kitchen knife was found in her possession by Uma’s daughter. The child ran to her mother immediately, happy to have found an item they thought lost, and also proud of themselves for having given a reason for a slave to be flogged. Since then the two deep scars on Irene’s back, a pair amongst many others that criss-crossed her skin, were a reminder not to carry a weapon.
Maybe now it was time for a change.
“We can block the door with the dresser,” Irene called out as she picked up the comb and watched the bone reflect the soft orange candlelight behind the woman.
She did not hear Orien’s reply, as that was when the door was yanked open. Noises from the outside had died off, and she could have sworn someone’s screams had reached her ears through the stone walls of the bathhouse. Irene passed them off at first as angry shouting, yelping as the slaves pushed one another to be the first ones to reach the Murderer.
Irene picked up the comb the moment someone’s voice echoed through the empty bathhouse. Light pooled into the room, stretching the shadows of those standing in the doorway. Two men. The woman did not move from the spot by the dresser and watched the shadows shift on the floor, distorted as they curved into the pit in the middle of the room. Her hand dove into the folds of her skirt, clutching the comb by its end where the teeth were sticking out, the shaft pressed parallel to her wrist that was hidden by the linen.
When the man shouted Irene stepped away from the dresser and turned, letting the light fall onto her. Bloody, bruised, dirty, with a torn skirt at her ankles and one side of her gown at the waist ripped where the stone cut it open, revealing the tanned skin beneath. She stood with her side to the one who shouted, still hiding the comb in her hand.
The man was a dark silhouette against the sun. The purple of his armour shined like amethysts in the sunrays and the steel of his sword glowed in a blinding light coated crimson.
At seeing the blood on the blade Irene halted. That is why the slaves were screaming outside.
This man was not going to listen to her, or Orien. He was not going to listen to anyone. The anger in his voice was enough to convey the decision already made up in the man’s mind. He was going to kill her, avenge the death of his father as the armour and the symbol woven into the piece of cloth on his body was enough to guess that this was the new head of the Passi household.
Irene did not reply to his question as it echoed through the room. She stared at the man, standing utterly still but tense. There was nothing to say.
Sorry your father is dead? He got shot? Don’t kill me I can explain? Neither seemed convincing enough to stop the armoured man from killing her if he so wished.
But her mind urged Irene to not stand still and wait to be cut down, especially not for a deed that she was did not commit.
“I did not kill him,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady but quiet, a mere whisper.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Hardeep Passi
"You were with him," Hardeep said in a strangled voice, "You were with my father when he died."
Orien said nothing next to him, still and silent. His eyes glanced between the woman and Hardeep, not daring to speak a word, the wrath of his master enough to keep him silent. He did not want to anger Hardeep further and the sword that glittered with blood told him that that was, in at least some part, a good choice.
Hardeep's mind felt clouded, muddy. He could see the slave in front of him, her clothing torn and bloody and dirty. Some part of him said that there was a possibility she had not done it, that she was too weak, too small to have done it. Another part murmured that if he killed her now, if he avenged his father like this, then he would not seen his parents when he passed, too ashamed at a son that would murder a slave that could not defend herself. But the larger, angrier part, the one that muddied his mind shouted at him to kill, to destroy, just like his father had slaughtered the man that had killed his mother. Just like his father had avenged the death of his mother so that Hardeep would know that she did not die in vain.
Your father was not a fighter, a small voice said, that sounded like Balin's. Your mother was the fighter. Your father was not.
This was true.
Even though his mother had taken his father's last name, everyone knew that it was the woman who ran the household, vicious and brutal and quick to anger. It was Balin who soothed her, who kept the slaves happy and fed when his mother would be upset and forget that she was to look after all of them. It was his father that tempered her, that taught there was no need to be so cruel.
Balin had murdered his wife's killer to avenge her, because she was a fighter.
If Hardeep killed the slave, he would not be avenging his father, who would have instead simply kept her locked away, to let her stew and think on her thoughts. It was what he did to the criminals.
"What happened?" he asked the slave, the sword shaking whether with anger or with grief he was no longer sure. "What happened to my father?"
Orien shifted next to him but said nothing.
Orien said nothing next to him, still and silent. His eyes glanced between the woman and Hardeep, not daring to speak a word, the wrath of his master enough to keep him silent. He did not want to anger Hardeep further and the sword that glittered with blood told him that that was, in at least some part, a good choice.
Hardeep's mind felt clouded, muddy. He could see the slave in front of him, her clothing torn and bloody and dirty. Some part of him said that there was a possibility she had not done it, that she was too weak, too small to have done it. Another part murmured that if he killed her now, if he avenged his father like this, then he would not seen his parents when he passed, too ashamed at a son that would murder a slave that could not defend herself. But the larger, angrier part, the one that muddied his mind shouted at him to kill, to destroy, just like his father had slaughtered the man that had killed his mother. Just like his father had avenged the death of his mother so that Hardeep would know that she did not die in vain.
Your father was not a fighter, a small voice said, that sounded like Balin's. Your mother was the fighter. Your father was not.
This was true.
Even though his mother had taken his father's last name, everyone knew that it was the woman who ran the household, vicious and brutal and quick to anger. It was Balin who soothed her, who kept the slaves happy and fed when his mother would be upset and forget that she was to look after all of them. It was his father that tempered her, that taught there was no need to be so cruel.
Balin had murdered his wife's killer to avenge her, because she was a fighter.
If Hardeep killed the slave, he would not be avenging his father, who would have instead simply kept her locked away, to let her stew and think on her thoughts. It was what he did to the criminals.
"What happened?" he asked the slave, the sword shaking whether with anger or with grief he was no longer sure. "What happened to my father?"
Orien shifted next to him but said nothing.
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
The way the man spoke tugged at her chest. There was such grief in his voice that it melted away the ice in which Irene had encased her heart a year ago after an attempted escape. It shocked her, along with the fact that she was still alive and not cut down.
Silent for a moment, Irene looked over the rider, taking note of the way he held onto the sword with a trembling hold, the way his shoulders were pulled back and his feet positioned on the ground. Behind him Orien stood silently, shifting ever so slightly.
Irene adjusted the hold on the comb. Its teeth painfully pressed against the palm of her hand and she accepted the pain. Leon always claimed she should accept the pain, embrace it as a sign of life. In turn, Irene found that scolding – as he always scolded her for crying out in pain at being injured or bruised, or at having an injury being treated – to be ramblings of a madman who was not only a sadist but a masochist as well. Now she could finally see what her mentor meant.
What did happen to Balin?
The question was much more complicated than it seemed.
“He,” Irene finally began after taking a deep breath, “got shot. We were on his dragon, flying here, I think. Then there were three sharp noises below us. Like exploding bombs. The dragon turned berserk, began to fly around in circles. Before your father could slide off I grabbed onto him. He was already dead then.”
I’m sorry.
Offering condolences would have changed nothing. She had lost enough loved ones to realize that pity was not what one would want to hear after losing someone close to them.
Balin’s death had no honour. To be killed by someone whom he did not see, against whom he could not even defend himself…Balin did not even see the face of the one who took his life. No sword was drawn; no battle took place. It was akin to being killed by a stray arrow. A death of old age had more honour than what Balin was given.
“I was told he got killed by a gun.” The entire time Irene spoke her silver eyes were fixed on Balin’s son, whose sword was still drawn. Then she shifted her gaze to Orien and jerked her chin at the door ever so slightly, a silent warning and urge that he moved away from the rider.
People committed foolish deeds when angry and stricken with grief and desperation. She told Orien that when they met earlier. And Orien was far too close to a man who was both angry and grieving, and armed.
She looked back at the rider, the soft candlelight wavering and shifting the shadows, making Irene’s features softer. The silver of her eyes was bright as she looked the rider in the eye.
“I did not kill your father,” she repeated, “and I don’t know who did.”
Silent for a moment, Irene looked over the rider, taking note of the way he held onto the sword with a trembling hold, the way his shoulders were pulled back and his feet positioned on the ground. Behind him Orien stood silently, shifting ever so slightly.
Irene adjusted the hold on the comb. Its teeth painfully pressed against the palm of her hand and she accepted the pain. Leon always claimed she should accept the pain, embrace it as a sign of life. In turn, Irene found that scolding – as he always scolded her for crying out in pain at being injured or bruised, or at having an injury being treated – to be ramblings of a madman who was not only a sadist but a masochist as well. Now she could finally see what her mentor meant.
What did happen to Balin?
The question was much more complicated than it seemed.
“He,” Irene finally began after taking a deep breath, “got shot. We were on his dragon, flying here, I think. Then there were three sharp noises below us. Like exploding bombs. The dragon turned berserk, began to fly around in circles. Before your father could slide off I grabbed onto him. He was already dead then.”
I’m sorry.
Offering condolences would have changed nothing. She had lost enough loved ones to realize that pity was not what one would want to hear after losing someone close to them.
Balin’s death had no honour. To be killed by someone whom he did not see, against whom he could not even defend himself…Balin did not even see the face of the one who took his life. No sword was drawn; no battle took place. It was akin to being killed by a stray arrow. A death of old age had more honour than what Balin was given.
“I was told he got killed by a gun.” The entire time Irene spoke her silver eyes were fixed on Balin’s son, whose sword was still drawn. Then she shifted her gaze to Orien and jerked her chin at the door ever so slightly, a silent warning and urge that he moved away from the rider.
People committed foolish deeds when angry and stricken with grief and desperation. She told Orien that when they met earlier. And Orien was far too close to a man who was both angry and grieving, and armed.
She looked back at the rider, the soft candlelight wavering and shifting the shadows, making Irene’s features softer. The silver of her eyes was bright as she looked the rider in the eye.
“I did not kill your father,” she repeated, “and I don’t know who did.”
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