Post by Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius on Dec 17, 2008 14:18:07 GMT -6
She Rides
Northern Reaches, Winter
She rides...
Methodical and precise. Her reactions are equal to the actions of the other; a figure cloaked in dark garb. He is unseen, save for the crest of the Steward deflecting light out onto the snow. As if issuing a call, the signal reaches other riders who fall to formation at his side. Soon they are a collective in the shape of an arrow and it is a race to see which will reach the target first. Cloaks flail out on the air like great, black wings that drive the shadow of the pursuit to the flanks of the woman's horse. "Catch her! She has the child, and we must have him. That family must die," a commander barks to lesser men, "The last living of one of the rebel households!"
In her arms, a boy seems to sway between the veil of the living and the dead. He was caught, injured, and is now sick within. Who would not want a sorrowed soul to be joined with family? He will never hear the sound of his mother's lullaby. A father will never bequeath his son a legacy and now only the name of his kin is all that remains of a life in a distant city. "I ran," he tells his savior between bouts of sleep. It would be so nice to sleep, but she bids him remain awake, "I..I ran. We ran into the woods for seven days...and on that day they killed them all...all..all of them."
A promise is made: "They will not have you."
How can a promise be made if in the times of a tyrant's reign, many can not be kept? In the Capital the memory of execution is still new. Blood runs like rain in the streets, and no one ventures out beyond nine bells. It is darker sooner than this, and even the daylight cowers under the edicts from the castle. A Sheriff lurks to take lives for the good of his master so that he might profit, and there is no peace in Avaria. Provinces squabble for land, for life. People turn on one another, and an infection work than plague is rampant: betrayal.
She has had to shield the eyes of her infant child from the gruesome cruelty of man and pretend as though her mild, kind nature was the extent of all things. The intelligence in her was bid to feign ignorance, and those called friends had to come forth in secrets. Many do not know if they are dead or alive. It is only because of the power of a name and president of the past they stand a chance. It is because of the efforts of them that hide in service to unravel it, that fight the cause, they stand a chance. Innocent and warrior alike may not survive the winter.
Yet she has ensured that this boy , and her daughter will go on. She can recall a night when, not so long ago, she began to sew flesh. A needle to silk turned to human skin that needed sealing. It sewed secrets into hidden places on the clothing of others who were similiar in the rebellion that brewed in Honheldagus. It began with the virtue of charity to the poor, ill, and destitute. Then it became the bargaining for the life of a harlot being dragged out of a brothel. This woman, thus becoming a servant in her household, brought with her a child that the Lady educated as a distraction to the bloodshed in the world around them. One child became two, and two soon became many. Debates could not be loud among the company in the glory of a noble estate, so in secrecy they began to meet in the foundations of other houses only to form places in the caves beyond. She taught the illiterate to find power in their own thoughts, the voiceless to make noise. She educated those who would become squires to aid in the making of a new sort of hero. While books burned, she made the trips to a place fabled to house impressive stores of books. A place who's beauty was beyond measure, and a place she could have stayed. "My husband is not there," she told a woman one day as they packed writings, food, and medicine for a messanger's journey, "Nor my daughter. My purpose is not there, and I am needed here. How can I stand, and watch a world where no one has hope in them? If the Steward wants to proport a reign of terror and ignorance, he will do so without our saying but if we strive, even in secret, to encourage one vice he loathes, than I have done far more than I ever could being a quiet wife. The vice he detests is knowledge."
She has dreamed of a life where swords could be changed for plough shears, as the bible says. How often had she prayed for peace? God suffers not idleness nor reclined strife. The boy in her arms awakes long enough to see a great river where a damn of ice at the top of the ford keeps the water at bay. The boy in her arms opens his eyes long enough to see the thin sliver of water. He, too, hears the gasp his savior issues as a blade reaches for her. It takes only a slice of the cheek. A thin line of red forms, but she rides on so as to cross this river. Her path, however, takes her into the foothills by this ford. They will overcome her here.
The ever-green trees rise up to the snow covered atmosphere. Sharp, jagged rocks populate the upward path, too dangerous to take with a child. On either side of the ford, the space becames open and wide. The Steward's men begin to cross the river with malicious eyes vying to take the prize. The body of the boy, and the woman's head.
All things should end here, or must. Won't they? They do not expect that the saddled woman will draw out a sword from the shadows at her body. It was created for her. Neither as long as a man's sword nor shaped as one, the curve in it is slight. Silver steel. Light, but strong. Holding the pommel of the sword in but one hand, it is craft of the wood from an old tree her husband's says will never rot and fortified with gold to hold it in place. Silver vines are beneath gloved hand, and on it, curved script reads:
"I am the North Star, and I shine in the hands of the winter borne. Wise and swift is my lady! I was made in the hands of old and given to one who's heart sings Avaria"
The language is that of the Ranger Tribes, lost, she has been told, to all save a few. They stop to consider their adversary. Small, surely no threat. Many of them, but one blade of hers.
"If you desire him, come and claim him!"
Her threats seem poetic, and transfigured by this, the men seem inclided to laugh. As they do so the ice of the ford damn will break, and sweep them far away. It was not used on this day but it has been cleaned of blood. She strikes not in vengence, hatred, or lust for war. Unlikely is she, the holder of this child, seeming to disappear with him to the paths of snow and ever-green that a moment ago no one could see. Blindness claims part of her sight. The body is small, and sometimes frail.
Yet in time we can become more than we ever were born to be and more than we thought possible. She has been this way for many months now, and has grown strong. Muscles shift under the dress of midnight wool. The black chemise holds the defintion of the back, and beneath the soft bodice her chest rises above a taut core. Her legs in the hosen are as spry as a dear. No, she is no great warrior. At least not of great battles waged by great men on fronts. But she has become a warrior of soul and defends what is left of Avaria's beside those she has come to call friend.
No, she is not a warrior by the means we know....but nor is she helpless..
Methodical and precise. Her reactions are equal to the actions of the other; a figure cloaked in dark garb. He is unseen, save for the crest of the Steward deflecting light out onto the snow. As if issuing a call, the signal reaches other riders who fall to formation at his side. Soon they are a collective in the shape of an arrow and it is a race to see which will reach the target first. Cloaks flail out on the air like great, black wings that drive the shadow of the pursuit to the flanks of the woman's horse. "Catch her! She has the child, and we must have him. That family must die," a commander barks to lesser men, "The last living of one of the rebel households!"
In her arms, a boy seems to sway between the veil of the living and the dead. He was caught, injured, and is now sick within. Who would not want a sorrowed soul to be joined with family? He will never hear the sound of his mother's lullaby. A father will never bequeath his son a legacy and now only the name of his kin is all that remains of a life in a distant city. "I ran," he tells his savior between bouts of sleep. It would be so nice to sleep, but she bids him remain awake, "I..I ran. We ran into the woods for seven days...and on that day they killed them all...all..all of them."
A promise is made: "They will not have you."
How can a promise be made if in the times of a tyrant's reign, many can not be kept? In the Capital the memory of execution is still new. Blood runs like rain in the streets, and no one ventures out beyond nine bells. It is darker sooner than this, and even the daylight cowers under the edicts from the castle. A Sheriff lurks to take lives for the good of his master so that he might profit, and there is no peace in Avaria. Provinces squabble for land, for life. People turn on one another, and an infection work than plague is rampant: betrayal.
She has had to shield the eyes of her infant child from the gruesome cruelty of man and pretend as though her mild, kind nature was the extent of all things. The intelligence in her was bid to feign ignorance, and those called friends had to come forth in secrets. Many do not know if they are dead or alive. It is only because of the power of a name and president of the past they stand a chance. It is because of the efforts of them that hide in service to unravel it, that fight the cause, they stand a chance. Innocent and warrior alike may not survive the winter.
Yet she has ensured that this boy , and her daughter will go on. She can recall a night when, not so long ago, she began to sew flesh. A needle to silk turned to human skin that needed sealing. It sewed secrets into hidden places on the clothing of others who were similiar in the rebellion that brewed in Honheldagus. It began with the virtue of charity to the poor, ill, and destitute. Then it became the bargaining for the life of a harlot being dragged out of a brothel. This woman, thus becoming a servant in her household, brought with her a child that the Lady educated as a distraction to the bloodshed in the world around them. One child became two, and two soon became many. Debates could not be loud among the company in the glory of a noble estate, so in secrecy they began to meet in the foundations of other houses only to form places in the caves beyond. She taught the illiterate to find power in their own thoughts, the voiceless to make noise. She educated those who would become squires to aid in the making of a new sort of hero. While books burned, she made the trips to a place fabled to house impressive stores of books. A place who's beauty was beyond measure, and a place she could have stayed. "My husband is not there," she told a woman one day as they packed writings, food, and medicine for a messanger's journey, "Nor my daughter. My purpose is not there, and I am needed here. How can I stand, and watch a world where no one has hope in them? If the Steward wants to proport a reign of terror and ignorance, he will do so without our saying but if we strive, even in secret, to encourage one vice he loathes, than I have done far more than I ever could being a quiet wife. The vice he detests is knowledge."
She has dreamed of a life where swords could be changed for plough shears, as the bible says. How often had she prayed for peace? God suffers not idleness nor reclined strife. The boy in her arms awakes long enough to see a great river where a damn of ice at the top of the ford keeps the water at bay. The boy in her arms opens his eyes long enough to see the thin sliver of water. He, too, hears the gasp his savior issues as a blade reaches for her. It takes only a slice of the cheek. A thin line of red forms, but she rides on so as to cross this river. Her path, however, takes her into the foothills by this ford. They will overcome her here.
The ever-green trees rise up to the snow covered atmosphere. Sharp, jagged rocks populate the upward path, too dangerous to take with a child. On either side of the ford, the space becames open and wide. The Steward's men begin to cross the river with malicious eyes vying to take the prize. The body of the boy, and the woman's head.
All things should end here, or must. Won't they? They do not expect that the saddled woman will draw out a sword from the shadows at her body. It was created for her. Neither as long as a man's sword nor shaped as one, the curve in it is slight. Silver steel. Light, but strong. Holding the pommel of the sword in but one hand, it is craft of the wood from an old tree her husband's says will never rot and fortified with gold to hold it in place. Silver vines are beneath gloved hand, and on it, curved script reads:
"I am the North Star, and I shine in the hands of the winter borne. Wise and swift is my lady! I was made in the hands of old and given to one who's heart sings Avaria"
The language is that of the Ranger Tribes, lost, she has been told, to all save a few. They stop to consider their adversary. Small, surely no threat. Many of them, but one blade of hers.
"If you desire him, come and claim him!"
Her threats seem poetic, and transfigured by this, the men seem inclided to laugh. As they do so the ice of the ford damn will break, and sweep them far away. It was not used on this day but it has been cleaned of blood. She strikes not in vengence, hatred, or lust for war. Unlikely is she, the holder of this child, seeming to disappear with him to the paths of snow and ever-green that a moment ago no one could see. Blindness claims part of her sight. The body is small, and sometimes frail.
Yet in time we can become more than we ever were born to be and more than we thought possible. She has been this way for many months now, and has grown strong. Muscles shift under the dress of midnight wool. The black chemise holds the defintion of the back, and beneath the soft bodice her chest rises above a taut core. Her legs in the hosen are as spry as a dear. No, she is no great warrior. At least not of great battles waged by great men on fronts. But she has become a warrior of soul and defends what is left of Avaria's beside those she has come to call friend.
No, she is not a warrior by the means we know....but nor is she helpless..
-.-.-
" We arrested the leaders of rebellions in the major cities, but could neither find the Overlord nor his wife. We could not find the Talons of Avaria, either, and it seemed they worked together or not at all. There was mention of a woman among the torchured who spoke who filled their heads with all matter of things: letters, numbers, shapes, and concepts. There was a rumor that she was the wife of an important noble. Others say that she was the Overlord's wife, and she must be a member of the resistance. This woman is proported to have closed the wounds of escapees from the jail and sent medicine to the ill the Steward wished to die so they bothered him no more. I encountered a woman once, garbed to be unnoticed. I didn't see much of her face, but I remember that on a horse she left me far behind. In the woods she crossed sword with me as I tried to take her, and found that instead of subduing her, she deflected my blows."
[/center]