Beqanna
Round 1-The Announcement - Printable Version

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Round 1-The Announcement - The Selection Committee - 04-25-2016

Royal Notice

You enter the square and it is bustling with people. Merchants bartering their goods, soldiers slowly walking the busy street on patrol, young children running about playing games -all typical things you would expect to find at the towne center. There are groups of young women clustered together, laughing at a long-winded story one was telling, while a group of young men stood off to the side watching the ladies and the other festivities. The market square was unusually packed today and all of the shops had a steady flow of patrons moving in and out. You move down the street and you wave as people call out your name, and you even stop to have a conversation with an old friend who works at the tailor shoppe. You try to pay attention to the news of the shoppe and how your friend is doing, but you are very preoccupied. There is to be an announcement at noon from the royal family, and you want to get to the podium where the messenger sent from the palace would read the letter as soon as possible. You can feel the excitement buzzing in the air.  

This style of announcement is an unusual one. You are not certain as to when such personal announcements ceased to be given, but the most common method of distribution was through private couriers employed by the monarchy to deliver their letters to those they decree worthy of giving information. You are extremely curious as to why such an announcement in this manner would be made, and so suddenly. Rumors had flown through the town recently, some of which seemed far-fetched and some which were altogether plausible. Perhaps the King was dying, or the country of Illea was going bankrupt or becoming destitute. Could there be an impending plague sweeping the nation? Could there be a potential war brewing? 

You move through the crowd, aware of the thick tension in the air. The stage was small in size - it was just large enough for a  thick oak podium, and a few officials. Soldiers were stationed and scattered about, with a hefty slew of them positioned on each side of the herald. A woman turns to you, incredulous and with a deep frown showing her disdain as she scoffs at the security measures, grumbling to you, “You would think we were rioting with all the police and royal guard present.” You give a small nod, not really wanting to get into a political debate with a stranger, but you cannot help but agree.

The reality is, it makes perfect sense. There was a resistance growing through Illea. Not everyone wanted to blindly follow the monarch, and political unrest was beginning to simmer beneath the otherwise calm exterior of the public. It no longer seemed fair that so few had so much, while many others suffered greatly. It started as rare statements of annoyance that grew into parlor talk, before seeping into dinner conversations that led to deeply organized gatherings of rebellion. It was only a matter of time until the monarchy took notice and action. You understood the need, but this wasn’t the time to talk about that, the messenger took his place behind the podium. The announcer, a tall middle-aged man with a round belly from living a cozy life behind a desk, unfolded a letter on thick, heavily embellished paper.  He cleared his throat and slowly a hush fell over the crowd.

By Royal Decree, I am authorized to share the following message from the King and Queen to the general public of Illea.

We have heard your concerns. We want to make it known that our thoughts are not only with those within our family, but with all of our people. That is why we are going to hold a competition. This competition will end with a single one of our loyal subjects being granted the Illean heir's hand in marriage. We hope this will help unite our kingdom once more and bring forth a new era of understanding.

All those interested in entering will need to fill out an application at their local town hall. The application will consist of general information, personal accomplishments and goals, as well as a sketch of yourself, which you will be able to have drafted upon entering. All questions can be addressed to your Selection Ambassador, who will be available at the towne center. The application deadline will be one week from today, and the town hall will open in one hour to begin taking applications.

Oh, yes, almost forgot you must be between the age of 19-24 to enter. Thank you.


You watched as the pudgy royal messenger quietly removes himself from the stage before disappearing into a blur of soldiers. And for a moment everything and everyone was still - and suddenly, it was chaos. Girls screamed with glee, young men huddled up to discuss the potential and how it would change the rebellion for better or for worse. Some hurried to the tailor or the beautician to prepare, while others fled for their homesteads to make plans. Some simply shrugged it off  with disinterest and moved with their day. You are caught somewhere in between; intrigued but wary.  

You try your best to stay out of the way from those who feel the need to rush to be the first application turned in. You walk home slowly, thinking about what if could be like to be selected, to be part of this historic event, to be selected as a future ruler. A leader, a monarch, with some control over the change the kingdom so desperately needed. There had to be more to this though, and your thoughts wander to how they might select someone for this. Was this the choice of the monarchy, or the heir themselves? And how likely would if be to actually be chosen? Was it worth the risk or time taken? Your thoughts wander as you walk back to your small house. You are far from royalty; your family suffers as many others do and you do not have much.

What will you do?

Questions?
PM: The Selection Commitee
or post in Connect



Prompt
Round 1: There are 2 parts to this round.

Part 1)Explain how you react to "coming to" in Illea as a human. Feel free to include how you came to be in Illea.

Part 2) Describe how your character comes to the decision to enter the Selection. What worries do you have? What excites you? Describe your application process and how you feel as you wait to hear who was chosen.  Two weeks later you hear you were selected!!  From there you must describe your journey to the castle (horse drawn carriage, train, car...and of course riding there on horseback or walking), and your feelings upon arriving and entering. You may describe your tour of the palace, living quarters,etc. Stop before you wake up for your first full day. 


All entries are due by Friday April 29, by 4:00 EST


Quest Details 

#This is a writing/elimination quest. The Selection Committee will be looking at your effort in drafting a creative story, full of vivid imagery and detail that helps us envision your story, fluidity from round to round, and how well you react to the challenges ahead. (Please note The Selection Committee will not be looking at grammar or writing structure.)

#There are no limits on number of entries

#Both Stallions and Mares may enter, therefore, the Heir will be whichever gender your character would be attracted to.

#All traits/ defects/ other abilities did not stay with you from your transformation. Only your personality, and individual set of morals made it to human form.

#This is an individual quest, your story and decisions in the quest will not affect anyone else’s story or decisions.

#If need be, the Selection Committee withholds the right to a roll of dice if a decision cannot be made on who will advance.


Helpful Information/ FAQ

#You are in human form for the entire quest. The exact manner in which you became human doesn't matter, what does matter is that now you are human, you feel human and you think you have always been human.  

#The kingdom, Illea, is in an alternate universe some things that occur here may not be possible in our reality but  here they are normal. Again, everything you see here should seem mostly normal to you (except for the announcement of the selection).

#Illea has limited technologies/luxuries. For the most part, you can assume you would have the luxuries/technology of working/middle class people in the 1900-1910's.

#The palace/castle interior is mostly based off of Buckingham Palace, for assistance in descriptions. The picture in the HTML is representative of the exterior.


~~~Any and all questions can be addressed to The Selection Committee. in Connect or by PM~~~
 
Good luck to you!!


RE: Round 1-The Announcement - Besra - 04-26-2016


A kiss is not a contract

The first hours of dawn were Besra’s favorite. For others, waking meant leaving the dream world behind. For her, it means waking to the real world just before everyone else gets to muck it up. Those hours, still and breathless with a rhythm and tranquility of their own are not like the rest of the day. It seems that no one is present in the hushed blueness of the morning, all the earth is peaceful and as it should be. For a brief second, if she closed her eyes, she could believe that she was utterly alone in the vast universe... What a thought.
But those moments are only figments, tiny shards of stolen jewels like memories that she stores away for different times when the world around her seems so chaotic and cruel. There is mother and father to think of, her newborn sister and the pups, the breeding bitches that must be fed and exercised, the male sires to prep for inspection and train for hunting. All of this with common house chores, cooking, mending, sewing, schoolwork. The last of these is a pleasured gift all in its own - though not exactly poor, her parents were less than capable of sending her away to find a trade. With what she saved by selling her own pastries at the market, Besra in turn managed to buy dust-ridden, older tomes and more than often ill-abused stories.
Her mind, like the winding hunting trails in the forest at their cabin’s back, expands beyond the tiny town nestled within Illea. It dreams of distant cities and untold glory, even as she packs her wares for today’s market and kisses her baby sister’s silky forehead good-bye. Her thoughts consume her, shroud her otherwise sharp mind in a hazy reverie as she treads the wide road to town and waves to those traveling around her. Even when she enters the city walls and greets old acquaintances, drops her fresh deliveries at the bakers and turns the corner to head to the tailors.
“Mind somewhere else today love?” Rury, the tailor’s son spoke, snapping her from her otherworldly fancies and bringing her to the present. Besra laughs, chiding him softly for the affectionate label. “Is it that obvious?” She asks, circling around the shop to trail her fingers over the fine silk and soft velvet. “I could see it a mile away, just like that hair o’ yours. Pale as milk and shimmering gold in the sunlight, to match them pretty freckles.” He teases, leaning over the counter to shoot her a wink. Besra laughs, rushing forward to swat at the gangly youth only to catch air. It was a game they’d played since they were little and Besra’s mother had brought her in for a gown fitting. Rury had asked her then when they’d be married, and he’d never stopped since.
“Got your thoughts in a knot over the announcement, eh?” Rury asked casually, nimble fingers reaching into her basket to swipe a single pastry that she always brought for him. “Truthfully I’d forgotten it.” Besra replies, eyes rolling away from him as if to brush off the notion. There - pinned to the doorframe - is the flyer. The time reads noon and without thinking, her eyes dart to the window to check the sun’s angle. “Cheeky bird. I see you.” Rury admonishes, tugging her hair gently before moving away to sort through stacks of orders. “Won’t you come?” Besra pleads, elbows resting flatly against the wooden counter as her eyes grow round and haunting like she’d seen the hounds do when they begged for scraps.
“Oh no missy, there’ll be no distractin’ me. We’ll be busy with all the foot traffic from this gathering of squawking chickens and Pa needs all the help he can get. Which is me alone.” He replies, shaking his tousled head in protest at her efforts. With a defeated sigh Besra gives, knowing better than to argue or steal away the opportunity for money. Taxes had risen substantially throughout the kingdom lately and times had grown a little tougher for everyone, even the busy little tailor shop. “Fine. I submit. But if you won’t come with me now, can you promise to come by the cabin later so that we can talk about it? You never visit anymore and Mother and Father are feeling a bit slighted, as is Rosy.” She tells him, her tone taking a curt note. Rosy had been Rury’s favorite pup when she was born, He’d even named her and taken time to rear her up and in return, Besra’s father had kept her as a pet, something that was usually strictly against business rules. The lanky boy straightened, vivid green eyes sharpening as he spoke to her, “Of course I will. I’m sorry, you know. About the absence. I’m almost ready to partner with Father and it’s takin’ up most of my time. But I’ll borrow the horse and ride out tomorrow if it suits you.”
Besra smiles and all transgressions seem to be forgotten between them in the moment. With a hug and a new, pale blue ribbon to braid into her hair she sweeps out of the shop and into the commotion of the streets, caught up in the pulsing throng of elbows, torsos and faces. Someone’s speaking to her but she can’t be bothered to listen to the buzzing negativity because up ahead Besra can spot the oaken podium and yes! There he is! A courtier with a paunch and the air of higher living has descended onto the stage and a hush lulls over the crowd.
“By royal decree…” He begins, and with each word that falls from his lips Besra can feel the thrumming of her heart grow louder and louder until it drowns out even his voice. “One loyal subject.” She thinks, and the words sink into her gut, into her heart, into her mind, where they sprout and grow until their roots are thick and impermeable. “It could be anyone …” She muses silently, pale blue eyes darting around as she notices the mild hysteria of the girls around her. So many, many beautiful faces. Each one different from the last. “It could be me.” She decides finally, after the crowd has somewhat dispersed.
With her hand to lift her skirts she finally moves from her spot, thoughtlessly heading for the town centre where she waits in line at the Ambassador’s booth, finally coming to the front when the day has begun to wear off and she’s sure they won’t get an accurate sketch in the falling light. But the artist she’s given is an older man, who sits her facing the sun’s glow and smiles wordlessly when he shows her the finished product: complete with a golden halo of Apollo’s rays. Besra is breathless on her journey home, making up for lost time in an effort to beat the coming dark. When finally she is safe with her family and her story is told, all of it seems so unreal that she struggles to fall asleep.
---------------------------
Rury comes the next day, as he’d promised. For once, he’s quiet, moving around her in wordless circles. They visit Rosy, now and then commenting on trivial things like the weather, or how the game was looking this particular season. Besra knows what this is about yet she refuses to touch the subject. She’d known him far too long to push him. Rury would open up to her when he felt it. It wasn’t until the sun sank amid the canopies of the trees and she was left to pack his saddle with parting gifts that his wide palm falls over hers, tenderly wrapping her fingers in his own before he pulls her away to look at her. “Please, Besra, tell me you didn’t.” He asks, voice low in the quiet evening. She cannot lie and she cannot bring herself to hurt him, so instead she looks away - to the dogs, to the forest, to the darkness beyond. When she looks back his eyes are closed, but his hand is still holding hers. “I had plans, ya know. Of taking over the business, savin’ up, takin’ you away wherever you wanted to go.” He whispers, pressing her hand over his heart so that she might feel it break.
“Rury, please … “ She gently pleads, but he loosens his hold and swings into the saddle, turning the horse about. “Don’t.” He spits, the angriest she’s ever seen her beloved tailor boy. His hands draw in the reins and he clenches his jaw, refusing to see her. ”You’re a selfish, silly girl to think they’ll ever choose you.” He says in parting, digging his heels into the mount before leaping forward to escape on the road home.
For the first time in a long time Besra watches him go, azure eyes blurring his receding form as they fill with tears.
-
A week passes. The letter comes: she’s been accepted. Mother packs her things. Father says he’ll grow thin without her cooking. Her baby sister seems more precious now than she has ever been. They all mean so much to her but only one goodbye would mean more than the rest. When the day arrives and she waits by the road in her sky blue cloak, carpetbag at her feet, he finally comes, trotting up the dusty path with a brown parcel underneath his arm. He cannot speak, and Besra won’t for fear that she’ll cry. “For you,”  He says, pressing the gift into her arms as a silver carriage descends to her home. “you’ll knock them right off their high horses in it.”
“Write me.” She begs, clinging to his hands one last time before her ride pulls to a stop. He only nods, turning to watch her hurry away in a flutter of fabric and wild, blonde hair. Besra does not look back. The door latches shut and then the team is off, jolting her body against the cushioned sides and for the first time in her life, Besra understands what is it to miss home.
She’s not alone. Three other girls already sit with her, various goods crowding the space. They are all silent on the journey, whether it be from arrogant disdain or genuine fear, but Besra prefers the silence. They travel through the city, past the onlookers and streets she’d walked forever, past the bakers and the tailors where the lights were still dim inside. They ingress until they pass beneath the mighty portcullis and breeze through the gilded iron gates, circling to stop in a row of other similar carriages before halting and unpacking their things.
There seem to be so many girls gathered around now, all of them giggling or whispering in the excited energy that surrounds them. A woman, elderly and rather uptight, descends the main walkway and claps for their attention. “If you’ll follow me please! Ladies! Single line, control yourselves, and remember, try not to act like commonfolk and keep your hands to yourselves!” She chips through her nose, turning once more to head through the castle, girls thronging around her like cattle.
The day is already late and they’ve got no time to tour, only enough time to be numbered off into groups and sent to their respective quarters. For now, the girls would all share gathering rooms. Besra had been sent to the ballroom, where beds of matching stature had been lined up against either wall and fitted with a chest at the foot. Hers, luckily, was by a window, where she could gaze out at the twist of gardens and watch as the night fell over the palace grounds. Around her the other girls grew increasingly silent, each one donning her sleeping gown or fiddling with her hair before slipping into bed.
But Besra, who had never before slept alone or in a bed of her own with such fine quality, did not meet sleep easily. Instead, she waited for morning with racing thoughts, eyes following the patterns on the ceiling as the strange quiet hour of the night descended around her. Yes - she’d left behind home, the pups, even Rury. Yet when the morning came, as it always did, it would be indescribably different this time. Just as she had dreamed so many times before, at last, Besra’s journey beyond her small town had finally come true.


ooc: ... it's a novel.


RE: Round 1-The Announcement - Kirin - 04-27-2016

you're metophorical gin and juice
so come on give me a taste
of what its like to be next to you
Kirin was born on a Wednesday, bright eyed and squalling. His father was the towne butcher, his mother a homemaker, a housewife like many other mothers. Kirin for all intended purposes had everything he could ever want, and at the very least anything he could ever need. His childhood was like others in his neighborhood. Grammar school, evenings around the shop with his father, outings with friends for a bicycle ride or a game of ball. Life went on that way for a time and as with all things, that time made change in both the world and our young boy.

The young boy Kirin grew, and as he grew, his considerably spoiled upbringing led him to an unpleasant nature- one he kept behind closed doors and curtains. That child become dark, taking far too much enjoyment from the family business, often honing his skills on the neighborhood cat or dog. With age and maturity also came the chemical and emotional desire for sex. It was not long before Kirin discovered women and shortly after that, men. It was not something one boasted or spoke of but that secrecy was a delicacy within itself, it was part of the allure.

When Father passed it is without explanation that Kirin took over the butchery, giving him not only a seat of power in his household but also an outlet for his wickedness. He made a fair living for both Mama and himself but Mama was always nagging, always breathing over him, always nosing and it was a few years after Pa passed that she too found her way to the grave. Never mind that he had helped her along in the end.

By karma or by fate things slowly unraveled after that. Kirin kept both the house and the shoppe afloat best he could but it just wasn’t enough, things were falling apart for him and for the towne. A few loyal customers showed weekly, relationships built and kept by his Father before him, people that knew him since he was a boy but that was not enough. He sank quickly into debt, the banks threatened to take the house and it had been several months since he let the hired help go. Things were falling apart and as they did Kirin grew colder, darker, and more malicious.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another day, another damn day.

Kirin woke early as he had always done, two hours before sunrise to be exact, smashing the metal alarm clock at his bedside. A wide yawn escaped his pouty mouth, an ivory-skinned hand twisted at his eyelid, and then he blinked blearily into his dark bedroom. When he rose the brass bed rails creaked, groaning against the shift of weight, calling for a good oiling but he’d have to do that later. Feet touch the cold floors and he is awake, grabbing for a match and striking it deftly with one hand. Soon the room is filled with yellow lamplight, a tall man ushering himself from the warmth of his bed to the only bathroom and in the mirror he grimaces at his reflection. Not because his appearance is frown worthy but because it was too early, life was a chore and he was the only one left to suffer it.

The reflection that stares back is comely, a tall stature, a soft, handsome face. Full lips strike their place in curvy pout and his hazel eyes shine silver mistakenly. Short twists of lavender hair adorn his head, the top long while the shades were kept shaved close. This was no anomaly in Illea, so he had never thought anything of it, nor had the townspeople. Kirin was pretty, make no mistake. Often Mother had claimed he was meant to be a girl with such beauty and perhaps she was right, at least about that, but Kirin was a man. He was a man when he lay with blacksmith’s daughter, he was a man when he rolled with the banker’s son, either way it made no difference. Either way he had them or either way he had their silence.

He washes quickly, scrubbing his skin pink before carefully patting himself dry, hanging the length of cotton on a hook on the wall. A white shirt, a pair of slacks, a tie. These garments find their way on his body, a modest dress from a closet that was slowly dwindling. Several of Kirin’s coats and trousers were in need of repair but he hadn’t the money to spare for that sort of frivolity. Well, perhaps just one, he thinks, snagging a jacket from the hanger. A quick breakfast of buttered toast greets his empty stomach as he decides to save the bacon for another day, and as he chews he is reminded of his state of affairs- as he constantly seems to be. Maybe today will be better, maybe today things will change and for some reason that thought ignites his memory.

Today was going to be better, things were going to change! How had he forgotten? How could this slip his mind? The announcement was to be today! Kirin’s outlook on the day swelled, it sugared from the sour-lemon note that he had initially placed on it. Jacket in hand, purple bicycle beneath him, he left the house for work and for the big news that was sure to come.

Opening shoppe was slow work, not because it took an especially long time to do but because he could think of nothing but the news that would unfold this afternoon. He swept the floor twice in his distraction, pushing the broom mechanically and without much thought given to the task itself. He rearranged the display in the window and even filled the baskets on the counter with sweets for purchase. Mostly Kirin dawdled, he watched the window with an unending anxiousness, and he served a single customer.

Finally, at half past eleven he grabbed his jacket, turned the open sign around to read ‘CLOSED’ and left after locking the door- bicycle left behind.

The streets were unusually crowded today, the shoppes were singing their wares, scents of fresh loaves of bread and cakes invaded his senses and made his stomach growl. Now and then he smiled to a pretty girl that waved as he passed. He waved back too of course, turning once or twice to watch them as they walked away. At the nearest corner he stopped, rapping a knuckle against the paned door of the tailor, both stopping for a quick word and to drop of his coat for repair. The door was painted blue, peeling and flaking from age, the sign hung crookedly in the window. Arthur, the shoppe keep, was an elderly man, with wisps of gray hair surrounding his very lined face. He tried his best to listen to Arthur, he really did, but his mind was distracted from their conversation without question- he really must be going. A quick thank you and a handshake later and he was again walking gleefully down the cobbles.

The growing tension as he neared the towne center throbbed, and suddenly his tie and collar felt too tight as he waited for the announcement to begin, crowding in around a stage with the others. What he heard next he could hardly believe. He was never prepared for such an announcement, a competition, the hand of the heir.

Power, riches, the easy life, so much easier than it was now. They were being offered something more, something better, he was being offered lustful material things and he could not resist.

Kirin could hardly contain himself. He wanted to begin at once, he couldn’t let all these unworthy and far less good looking people have what he could surely win. As the stillness in the center escalated to an all out riot, he decided it would be better to wait, elbowing his way out of the shoving hoard and catching the nearest wall as he emerged from its depths. Once free of the excited drunkenness his head clears, thoughts racing as he makes his way back home, ideas and theories running rampant in his mind.

Was this a trap? What did he have to lose? What did he truly have to gain? Who was the heir and what part did they play in this grand declaration? Could he win?

Bugger that, of course he could win.

It doesn’t take Kirin long to convince himself that the rewards far outweigh the risks. That the risks posed could be overcome, or that he could give them one hell of a fight. The next day he is able to return to the square to snag an application of his own, filling it out with perhaps a bit of padding and a few loose interpretations of himself. From the tailor he collects his freshly repaired jacket, tossing it on to make straight for his sketch appointment. Once the finished product was given approval he made for town hall where he promptly submitted his forms, leaving with a quick smile to Rose, one of the designated clerks.

Two weeks. Two long weeks he waits and in that time his demeanor is thoroughly on edge. To pass the endless hours he beds the inn keep thrice, threading her curly red hair through his fingers like reigns. He has several evening rendezvous with Henry the baker’s son, each time leaving the young man in tears that he wipes away with a thumb and a smile. Every silver he earns is hoarded away and he often stands outside the shop, beckoning the townsfolk inside to sell them fresh cuts of their favorite meats. It’s been awhile since Kirin’s done this, so long so that he recalls his father’s approving nod every time he lured in their days business.

It comes, the day, it comes and Kirin can hardly still himself the night before- tossing and turning in his sleep, fitful dreams and night sweats. He rides his purple bicycle into town, silver eyes sightless, hands clenching the handlebars until his knuckles are white. The walk to the square is even more uncertain, his ironed slacks feel stiff, protesting with each motion of his leg. Each step feels heavy as he makes his way to the towne center where an announcement board stands. Several guards surround the freshly built structure where hung sheets of paper have fine scrawled ink across their surfaces.

Names, the chosen, they’ve decided.

A sharp intake of breath accompanies the discovery of his own name written in fine pen across the middle of the paper. Brisk morning air meets his pouty lips where a smile soon replaces their surprised lines. He’s done it, times were changing and he had no time to waste in his preparations.

With his savings Kirin purchases a horse from the local stables, a healthy gray gelding with a sound gait. Prominent dapples freckle along the horse’s back and he has a refined look about him, with trimmed locks of shining ebony and an angled face. At home Kirin packs only his finest pieces of clothing into a leather sack, setting aside a few coppers that he will spend on a fresh cut and shave. Without sadness he leaves the dilapidated house, setting his mind and his jaw that he will be successful in this endeavor as he mounts his readied coursier and sets off towards the castle.

Kirin’s mount makes for a well-selected animal, hardy and bomb proof as they traverse the dirt roads outside town. He takes to calling the gelding Jack and each time they both seem to grow more accustomed to the sound of it.

They arrive to a cluster of hopefuls, both man and woman alike and this only causes the upward inching of Kirin’s eyebrow. Just who was this heir?

If Kirin didn’t know any better he would assume this was some sort of dream. Dirt roads and lush grassy hills give way to an extensive, gated estate. The path to the castle was lined with stone, all edged and smooth and perfectly placed within their earthy home. Flower patches and manicured hedges adorn the yard, marble fountains stream delicate arches of water into the warming air. A group of servants with red jackets help him with his bag, as well as take Jack away to their stables for a brushing, hot meal, and refreshment. Women with gloved hands carry glasses of champagne on silver trays that swirl among the building crowd.

It was pleasant, and perfect and practically sickening.

With an embroidered kerchief Kirin wipes his neck, filing towards the assembled hopefuls and sipping champagne in the sun. Several guards mill about, some looking stiff and hot at the front where a familiar middle-aged man stood. Before long he was speaking, his round belly following each word and jiggling with every attempt at humor. The lavender haired man listened along with the rest, watching carefully each curve of the speaker’s lips, right down to the disgusting spittle that drenched his ‘s’. They would all be given room and board, refreshment, food, but first a tour of the castle itself.

Inside, the pale walls were even more lavish than the grounds could ever hope to be. Ivory and molded filigree adorned the rooms, swirls deftly painted with accents of gold. Gleaming floors shone against the hundreds of fluorescent lights, electricity, something Kirin could never afford to have. Light bulbs and wiring were a frivolity that only the richest could afford, and the amount that lit the room made his mouth salivate with want. Gold chandeliers hung from several ceilings, gilded mirrors sat proudly displaying reflections, polished oak tables stood in grand dining halls with velvet runners. The stairs were railed with hand carved banisters and lifelike dancing bears at their end. Kirin had never seen anything like it, nothing to match the quality and craftsmanship that went into each piece. There were no words for this display of wealth and power, there were only thoughts that bit eagerly at Kirin’s conscience.

When finally he was led to his room his was pleased to see that no expense had been spared. From the lavish wallpaper to the down stuffed duvet it was pristine and elegant in every way. His bed was a regal, four poster monstrosity,  with heavy crimson drapes surrounding the plush bedding. A fire crackled in the hearth behind a steaming tub of water, several fluffy towels and rose soaps were set out for his use, while the water itself smelled generously perfumed.

After a long soak Kirin fell exhaustedly into the soft sea of blankets, something he was sure to recall as the best sleep of his life.
Kirin
son of Khaos



RE: Round 1-The Announcement - Topsail - 04-27-2016

I was in the darkness
So the darkness I became


The last thing she remembered thinking before drifting peacefully off to sleep was “My, the moon is bright tonight.”

She had chosen a thick grove of pines. It was almost like a cove, totally surrounded but open at the front. The pine needles provided her a mattress, while the filtered moonlight gave her just enough light to see. It was an unusually bright moon, and its beams had even managed to break through the ever-present fog. Somewhere across the Valley a lone wolf called, its forlorn howl ringing sharp through the clear fall air. Soon its comrades responded, and the Valley had become a symphony of predatory calls. Smiling a small smile, the grulla queen drifted off to the unlikely lullaby.


Hours passed, or perhaps it was only minutes. Time was a foreign concept to those in a deep slumber. Sunshine filtered through a dirty window pane, and the mousey-haired girl grimaced in her sleep. However long had passed it was still to early to rise. But the sun would not be denied as it rose higher in the blue sky. A sigh slipped from between her full lips, her breast heaving as the air passed from her lungs. The girl opened her eyes; eyes that were hers and not hers all at the same time. She knew a moment of confusion as she looked down her nude body. Where there had been hooves were now hands and feet. What were once legs were now slender arms and legs. The pine needles had been replaced with something softer, perhaps some type of bird feathers. She raised her hand to her face, feeling a small nose and full lips, ears on the side rather than at the top. Her hair was softer and more or less the same color it had been when she had been an equine. Opening her mouth she laughed out loud- being a horse was such an absurd thought! Now that she had gotten her bearings, the horse seemed like some far-off dream. People, which she clearly was, could not be horses. Clearly the bright moonlight had blessed her with some strange dreams, and that was all. With that merry thought she threw the blanket back from her bare legs and set her feet on the rough wooden floor. It was a beautiful day, and even through the soot-covered windows she could see the clear blue beckoning her. A corset and dress hung from a small hook on the wall. Through some unknown instinct she headed towards it, pulling and pushing the fabric as needed until the fit was just right. It was a simple dress, made of a pale blue cotton blend and trimmed in a cream-colored lace. The lace was frayed and dingy in places, but otherwise she looked beautiful. Looking in a mirror she piled her hair atop her head, though several soft curls fell down to frame her pretty face. With a final smile she threw open the front door, ready to face the gorgeous day that beckoned to her.

Her small cabin stood on the outskirts of the kingdom, along a dirt road that led directly into the town square. It was a busy road on a normal day, but today was different. Today their small kingdom was thrumming with excitement and tension alike. The small road had become a major thoroughfare, and the girl could scarcely see anything for the dust raised by hooves and wagon wheels. She set out on foot along the side of the road, careful to stay off to the side and not in the way of the trotting horses. On both sides of the road were people like her. Some were richer, some were poorer, but all were curious. Rumors had been swirling through the kingdom as of late, and even the deaf, dumb and blind had some idea of what was going on. Rebellion was stirring like a hornets nest, and while Topsail had her own thoughts on the whole ordeal, she was smart enough to leave well enough alone. After all, what could one mousey-haired girl do to change anything anyways?

It did not take long to reach the square. Not that she had much of a choice, given the vast amount of people heading in that direction. It seemed everyone- young and old, poor and rich -had made their way to town today. There were jovial voices and anxious whispers, broken up occasionally by the laughter of frolicking children. Topsail stood off to the side, out of the hustle and bustle but still close enough to hear clearly. A woman spoke to her and Topsail offered her a non-committal smile. Now was neither the time nor the place to get in a long winded discussion about politics. Turning from the woman and back to the podium, she caught the first glimpse of the royal messenger. He was pomp and circumstance made living flesh; ample flesh. Clearly, he hadn’t been affected by the recent rationing of sugar and flour. As he spoke she listened intently, the corners of her pink lips turning upwards ever so slightly. It wasn’t so much as a smile, but more so her way of visually contemplating the potential task at hand. Was she up to it? She wasn’t a peasant per say, but she was by no means royal. Her father had been a blacksmith, so while he made enough that they didn’t go hungry (usually), he was never able to wrap his daughter in silk and satin. She mulled over the messengers words the entire way home, forcing herself to apologize for carelessness more than once. Fortunately, most people weren’t overly perturbed by her lack of attention as they themselves were consumed with the…task at hand.

Opening the heavy wooden door she stepped inside, and only when the shadows washed over her face she did allow herself to exhale and close her eyes. Married, to the prince. How often had she caught glimpses of him, either riding in his gilded carriage or perched atop his slick black stallion? Even the horse would pale in comparison to his riders looks. She liked to imagine that he would be a kind king. With his dark hair that flopped carelessly beneath his crown, and his bright blue eyes that seemed to mimic a summer sky. But she was only Topsail, a blacksmiths daughter wrapped in plain cotton. She was no heir to any type of throne nor did she boost a bloodline blue and royal. However, her parents had always told her she was more than a pretty face. A face that had stopped more than one peasant boy on the streets. She was strong willed and stubborn, possessing an iron-clad will that rivaled the strength of the castle gates. This was her home, and perhaps there was some chance of her, a blacksmiths daughter, making a real change. With those thoughts in her mind, she quickly washed her face and once more glanced in the mirror. Tomorrow, at this time, she would go to the town hall and submit her application. The worst that could happen is that she would be denied. The absolute best thing to happen would be that she was selected, and would be given a chance to make a real change…not to mention a chance to see if the princes arms were just as strong as they looked.

She arrived to find the town hall busy, but not completely overwhelmed. Smiling politely, she sidestepped a gaggle of giggling girls. No doubt their brains were filled with little more than air and bits of pillow fluff, but the opportunity to be married to the prince was more than they could resist. They didn’t care about the state of the kingdom; they only cared for a taste of the prince’s luscious lips. Topsail, on the other hand, cared very much about her kingdom. It was her home and had always been her home; she owed it only her best. What exactly her best was she wasn’t sure, but no doubt she would dig deep and find out. Taking a deep breath she stepped into the town hall, her modest heels scratching on the rough floor. Several royal officials stood behind the counter handing out applications as they were requested. “Please sirs, I’d like an application.” she said, offering them only her best smile. A boy from her youth had often told her she had a way of making her eyes sparkle and right now, she turned that charm on to the fullest extent. The official nearest her smiled back, a rosy blush rising up from his stiff collar to flush his neck and cheeks above. “Thank you. And a pen, if you please..” And with that her hand began to sweep over the parchment, her strokes more excited the farther she went.

A week passed, and then two. Topsail had mostly given up hope. She was surprised to find herself as upset as she was; what had started off as just a wild hair and completely consumed her. Just the other day she had practiced her curtsey, silly though it may be to do so. Surely they had chosen someone more worthy, be it by beauty or brains. Lost in thoughts she almost missed the knock at the door. It was likely a neighbor looking to borrow something, or perhaps one of the peasant boys who had been eyeing her so strongly. She quickly brushed the tears and disappointment from her face and then swung open the wooden door. There before her stood the same royal messenger, fat and smug in his satin wrapper. “I am here to announce that you, Topsail, have been chosen to visit the palace…” but his words were lost. It was hard to hear much past the smile that had taken over every last corner of her pretty face.

It did not take her long to ready herself and soon she was boarding a simple but fine carriage. The horses pulling it were a handsome pair of chestnuts, and even without the restriction of the check rein they held their heads high. She had barely gotten seated on the plush velveteen seats when the driver shouted to his team, slapping the reins across their glossy hides. They plunged forward into the bridle and Topsail was thrown back into the comfort of the seat. Nothing could dampen her spirits today, not even getting jostled around by the over-enthusiastic whip and his team. As the wheels clattered over the cobblestones she peeled back the curtain to glance out the window. Many a curious face was peering at the carriage, and Topsail knew more than one of those faces would probably be green with envy. Even if she wasn’t chosen, she would still be given the opportunity to visit the castle! Most people here would only ever see it framed in heavy iron bars. As she settled back into the seat the carriage ride became smoother, and she knew without a doubt they were nearing the palace. They passed through the wrought iron gates as she threw back the curtain completely, reveling in the overall magnificence of the place. Somewhat unwillingly the chestnut team came to a halt, though they continued to roll the bit between their teeth. In the blink of an eye the driver was at the door, swinging it open and bowing low. Topsail smiled and blushed, offering the man in the top hat a quiet “thank you”. Looking up at the castle she suddenly felt small and very insignificant. It seemed as if the smooth stone stretched to the sky, with the very top turrets tickling the bottoms of the clouds. Lost in her reverie she almost didn’t notice the handsome servant that skipped down the stairs towards her. He also bowed, taking her hand between his as he did so. “My darling, you are the last to arrive. Please, follow me into the castle. Everyone is most anxious to meet you.” he said, his voice oozing a certain charm that Topsail couldn’t help but admire. Blushing again she followed the man up the steps, barely able to contain a gasp as he threw open the heavy oak doors. With a start, she realized the hardware was made of gilded gold. As they stepped over the threshold and into the forayer, she did allow herself to gasp. She was quite certain her eyes had never feasted on such beauty. Even the sunset paled in comparison.

The rest of the day was rather uneventful. Mostly a lot of pomp and circumstance, leaving Topsail to feel wildly out of place but excited all the same. The other ladies were clearly used to such fineries and didn’t fuss much, but Topsail found herself enthralled by it all. From the golden door handles, the oriental rugs that spoke of far-off foreign lands, to the fine china fit for a palace in the Dynasty itself. It was hard not to feel somewhat overwhelmed. Throughout dinner she made small talk with the other girls though she was careful not to reveal too much of herself or her thoughts on the current political issues. Girls were known to be chatty creatures, and it wouldn’t do for any of her thoughts and feelings to reach the wrong set of ears. Finally, the same handsome servant from before stepped into the dining room. “Ladies, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you all to your quarters. I trust you’ll find them more than suitable.” As another servant pulled her chair back for her, Topsail rose to follow the crowd and the man. They walked for what seemed like miles, depositing the other girls here and there. Finally, she was the only one left. “And here is your room.” said the man, bowing as he swung open the door. “Thank you. I’m sure its lovely.” Topsail said, offering him a genuine smile. He reciprocated the smile before bowing himself out, closing the door behind him. With a start she realized the room was round and she knew she must have been stationed in one of the turrets. Heavy silk curtains hung all around the room, while the kingdoms colors (navy blue and old gold) were draped from the ceiling. A large four-poster bed stood to one side, and its hangings mimicked those from the ceiling. Above the bed and painted on the stone was the castle crest; a lion rearing, its fierce mouth drawn open in a silent roar. A small table bearing a vase of fresh cut lilac sat beside the bed, and Topsail breathed deep of the gorgeous scent. Curiosity eventually overcame her, and she peered into the oaken wardrobe, surprised but grateful to find a night gown there. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Sighing she shed her day clothes, slipping into the nightgown. It fit her like a second skin, the soft material clinging to her curves. Throwing back the duvet she noticed with a smile that a warming pan had been placed at the foot of the bed. Yawning widely she climbed in, sinking into the fine mattress like a stone in the sea. Pulling the covers up to her chin she drifted off, and it was only from exhaustion that she forgot to feel excited.




topsail




RE: Round 1-The Announcement - Nixie - 04-27-2016

She isn't as eloquent as the others, nor is she as bold, or social. The pink mare preferred her little cave, the only place that she calls home. Zayn would visit soon enough, she trusts in that hope. Maybe it was that even in his violent ways of claiming, he still found room for a smile, and pleasant comment. She trembles thinking on the red gloss that coats his eyes, they are alluring even as they are intimidating. Just as my pink coat. a hush of a whisper, it still reverberates through the cave sending startled adrenaline surging through her muscular tissue. Jaw sets in firm resolution, this was the reason others could not understand the need for solitude. Zayn could, he knew the meaning of standing out, he understood the looks and stares that set her body into convulsions. HE was the only one to not stare, to not take advantage of her. He desired her, favored her, pampered her, and catered to all her needs.

Hovik, her son, dashes from the safe confinement of their cave at a thundering pace jerking her from her wistful thoughts. Eyes widen until tender skin is ready to split. Her neck strains back searching for the flash of pink that would give away his location. She is stunned into silence for what seems to be an eternity. Feet planted to the stone in fearful paralysis. Only the still quivering branch of a bush lets her know that he was not another haunting memory. Why? Panic rises, she starts pacing, the clunk of her hooves against stone echoes around her. She moans and shakes with the racing heart, she had to go after him. She must find her son before some wild cat does. Mustering up her courage its one hoof in front of the other, a deep breath to fill her lungs with the familiar scent of the cave one last time. This would be her first venture since her arrival with Zayn. Hovik? The choked whisper extends past the gapping mouth of her shelter. He never tried to leave before, why, why now?

Eyes squeeze shut and she lets out the breath before plunging her body forward. It’s the first nip of air that has her eyes opening, but only blackness surrounds her. Deep penetrating blackness, a scream rips through her throat. Wait, a scream? She startles herself with the strange voice. Terror slashing its way through her. Where was Hovik? Where was Zayn? Why didn't her voice sound like a horses? Each second bringing a change that she can’t manage to comprehend. First snap of bones contorts her back until her front hooves are aligned with her hips. Pop, a painful wrenching of muscular change shrinks her neck until it is nothing but a stub. Withering as a plum would when it turns to a prune, her hind legs now slender and straight, her mane now a mop of hair that is imprisoned to just her head, rotating her neck to look behind her, humph of course. no tail. Wait... noticing the lack of facial features within her sight fingers reach to touch the soft skin that lacked the elongated bone structure. Confusion, skin... where was her fur? This all seemed so overwhelming. She screams again looking at what should be hooves. Long and thin, they protrude from the solid stump that was attached to her wrist.

She should have never left the cave, her lamenting wails cut through the nothingness. Taking off in any direction searching for a way out of the blackness. It is as if something heard her, because one step forward and she is sent spiraling downward. Landing in what seems to be a bed of grass, splayed out and catching her breathe, she starts out by crouching on the shaky legs, at least this place had light. Hello? Silence is the only thing greeting her. Though a tremor travels the length of her spine the air smells heavy with the scent of another watching. Looking around a set of what appears to be clothes... how did she know that? Nixie can't help but puzzle over her recognition of such items. Lace and cotton, short sleeved, and plumped her nose scrunches at the sight. Her instincts to throw them away and run screaming back to.... where had she come from anyways. What was she supposed to do again? She shrugs and proceeds with adorning herself in the garments provided. Smoothing out the pleats below the waist band. She admires the garment against her lithe frame. Stepping towards the pool of water, she admires the reflection staring back at her. Clicking the leather boots together, the bright pink of the dress ripples. Something flashes beneath the liquid mirror.

Dropping to her knees she reaches below to find what it was that she saw. Only once again she is pulled into blackness. Landing once more splayed on her butt. Scowling at the blue sky, dreams of glory, and romance suddenly begin filling her mind, and fading out everything of her previous life. The sun blistering down on her pristine skin, it felt wonderful to bath in. As delicate as she appears, the strength of her muscles are concealed under the taunt skin. Nixie! A squeal emits from behind her, thudding feet trampling through the field. Nixieee! For the hundredth time the grasses concealed her deep in the field providing her with a secret world belonging to only her. Mainly because of the rash she would get, her mother avoided stepping past the short grasses of the yard. That hardly stopped her from discovering her hide away daughter, for it was always Hovik she sent after her. The annoyingly sweet little brother, who never took anything seriously. He always set out to play a joke on someone. She prepares herself for the rush of legs and arms that would attempt to thrash themselves against her. Before he can manage though, she rolls to her side with a giggle. He manages a scowl at her and she tussles his hair affectionately.

He offers her a grin that lacked several teeth, and a grubby hand to help her up. She wrinkles her nose When are you going to learn to wash? He simply shrugs and Nixie takes the hand offered exasperated that he didn’t care about his hygiene. Hoisting herself from the grass. She stands to her feet. Letting go of her little brother when she is stable, her eyes squint past the railing that bordered this grassland and waves as soon as she spots her mother. Daring to take a look down at her creased dress she begins to nibble on her lip. She was going to never hear the end of this when she reached her mother. Begrudgingly she begins to wade through the grasses slumping to concentrate on the ground in front of her. Nixie, I want you to take your brother with you into town today. Try to sell some of the eggs this time will you? Nixie scowls listening though refusing to look up. Yes mother She grumbles in response. These were the days that she wanted to hide out on, these were the days that she dreaded. She feared the crowds, and managed to come up with excuses every time her mother asked. Or if she couldn't she would hide in the alleys waiting until the crowds dispersed to return home. Collecting some of the coins that scattered on the road side. She would leave the basket of eggs, and say that she had sold some, but not all of them or that they had cracked, and no one would buy them. As much help as she wanted to be, it was only at home in the confines of silence that she wouldn't jump at every sound.

Her brother distracts her tugging at her arm. Let’s go! Let’s go! She succeeds in offering a nod to him Ok, but you carry the basket. He shakes his head until it looks to almost fall off eager as he is, he would agree to do anything. Including the selling of the eggs. A secret smile curves at her lips. Yes this would do very well. She wouldn't need to go alone, the crowds would not be quite so terrifying. Mother of Christ! How could you do this to your dress? Her mother looked as if she were about to have a heart attack. This will not due, you must look presentable. Go in and change to your Sunday best. It couldn't be helped, there was no escape for her this time. Mother was starting to hover more often, especially since that boy seemed to be making advances on her. Preening and pampering her so that Nixie looked like a stuffed doll. This was her mother’s method of telling her to get a husband. At 20 years of age she was well past her prime, and the pickings were slim to none. She herself had been resigned to this fact for several years, but her mother. Her loveable, exaggerated mother didn't give up hope. As much as the woman annoyed her to death, Nixie still had a soft spot for the woman that thought that everything would end up alright in the end. She still strived to keep everything together and well.

It was a widely known fact that her father’s farm was failing, and whispered among the town’s gossips that the reason for Nixie's lack of suiters was ranging from an incapacity to give children, to a secret marriage that shamed the family. All Nixie could do was roll her eyes and hope that tomorrow there would be less stares and more smiles. Usually though each day there were more scowls and whispers that grew and rooted her to her resigned state. They traipse along in silence, watching as travelers pass them by. It would take at least a solid hour for them to reach the town square.  When the roads turn to cobble, and the buildings to brick she know that they are on the edge of the town. A rumble of voices guiding them closer to the market stalls. Many booming voices call out to the people passing by attempting to sell their wares. Some children brush past her skirts almost knocking her down. They giggle full of mischief and probably thieving from the stalls. All she can do is snicker, it would be nice to be that age again looking for a lollipop, or liquorish rope that someone may not be guarding as well as they should.

Picking through the crowd she takes Hovik’s hand firmly as to not lose him. Jostled from one side, and yelled at by the other she mumbles apologies trying her best to squeeze out of the congested area at the entrance of the market. Perspiring she clutches to Hovik, though it feels as if he slips from her grasp more than a few times. Guards stand tall, lined in the finest garments, and polished buttons gleaming in the sunlight. So stoic they are she couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at the haughty statues. Her attention is broken when they finally stumble through, breaking past the bodies clamoring to get in. As soon as she has accomplished this task, a hand waves to her. It belongs to a fairly tall man that jogs up to her and she can't resist a groan before plastering on an appealing smile(snarl). I've been looking for you Nixie, what took you so long? Turning to talk to her brother, she finds that Hovik is already partially down the street yelling out for customers to purchase his eggs. At this she has no choice but to turn and face the man in front of her. She is quaking in her boots, sweaty palms pressed against the now suffocating dress that she was swimming in. It wasn't that he was ugly, he wasn't annoying either, but he was in her mind, intimidating, encroaching, and unbearable to be around. It felt as if he were demanding something from her. The horse wasn't available today. He purses his lips knowing full well that the horse was only reserved for long travel. You look well. She begins to walk through the colorful stalls, filled with soft rugs, and silk garments. Fabrics that spread out from muted tones, to vibrant blues, and greens. I am feeling well thank you She doesn't offer any conversation, refusing to acknowledge that he was even alongside her. Paling with each moment that he shadowed her, she attempts to distract herself looking around at the pottery, and perfumed flowers.

The smell of roasting chestnuts forms a rumbling gurgle in her stomach. Let me get you something to eat. My treat. She shakes her head adamantly. No way was she going to owe this man any favors. I'm not hungry, She lied again, even as the candies looked back at her with mouthwatering delight. The following stalls simply torture to walk past, each one filled with something so delicious it only made his pleading all the more tempting. Breads of several different varieties each with golden crusts looking glossy with what she knew would be a chewy crunch followed by the moist and flaky dough that only a talented baker could offer. The tangy aroma of pine nuts, and exotic fruit sweet and juicy had her imagination running rampant. Filling her mouth with soft cheeses, sticky sweet rolls, and best of all. Chocolate, the creamy richness melting on her tongue was as dreamy as marrying a prince could ever be to a girl of her age. The scent of the dark treat wafted through her throat, filling her lungs with a thick sweetly bitter sensation, heady, that’s what it was heady, a certain euphoria that calmed the nerves. Her fingers itched to take one, to slip it in her mouth and lick her fingers of all the residue that melted on them.

Shaken from her stomachs rumblings and delighted tasting of scents. She hears the beckon of the herald. What was he doing here? Frantic for her brother to be found before he was lost in the crowd she whips her head around searching for the mop of golden hair that would announce his presence. Finding him, she runs Hovik! He startles and turns to her grinning. Nixie, I sold all the eggs! Relief flooding through her, she crumples him up in her arms before the announcement pulls her attention. Still she clung to his hand making sure to keep him nearby. She gasps at the request for a suiter for the heir. This could not be happening, the noble kept to themselves, the royal family never appeared. No one even knew what the prince looked like... if it was even a prince at all. People begin throwing themselves in line. Screaming in ecstasy.  She stands back for a moment. What would mother think? She could almost picture the woman shoving her forward, telling her that this could be their only chance. The only chance to help her family survive? That was all it took. Turning to Hovik she grabbed his shoulders. Tell mother I will be back later, tell her I’m safe, but that it might be a while. He nodded. Before he could take off though she took the little tied cloth her mother gave her to stash away the money. And securely tied it around his neck tucking it under his shirt for safe keeping. With a swat she releases him, and she watched after him until he disappeared from view.

Checking around for the boy… what was his name? She couldn’t recall. He seemed to have gotten lost though and that was all that mattered to her. Stepping into line she does her best to keep from jostling into people. Now that her brother was gone the world suddenly got a lot bigger, suddenly everything was to close, stifling really. She groans, but the realization at just how life changing this could be for her family keeps her standing rather than fleeing. What took all afternoon, the line started to dwindle, the sun setting, the cool breeze refreshing to her now cherry red skin. Sweat caked, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was even worthy of the sketch.

It’s her turn before her gut can tell her to turn around and run. Standing for him, she knows of no pose that would do her any good. When he finishes though he turns it around to show her. Thin, to thin, that was what she looked like. Thin lips curving just enough to represent a pout, dimpled chin pointed downward from a heart shaped face. But the biggest concern for her is the blue eyes, to big in her mind, worry etched her brows, making her appear older then she really was and very tired. Tussled locks of bright pink rain down on her shoulders breezy from so much jostling. A button nose planted in the middle of her face. There were only mild curves at her waist and chest, nothing too outstanding, at least she didn’t appear to be a boy though. A part just down the middle of her hair has a few strands drifting across her narrow forehead. Long neck, long fingers, long legs, she was just over all too long, to delicate, and apparently to worried for her own good. She would never be picked. Then it’s towards the application stand she heads. Quivering with fear she looks to the one writing down the information, beady eyes, and thin nosed, his sharp contours make her think of a slimy fish. She shudders at this and then, then he looks at her planting her in place. The burnt appearance is now just ghostly. Name, Um.. ah… well.. She clears her throat and he just sighs waiting impatiently I don’t have all day, Nixie It’s out in a heartbeat. Before it got stuck in her throat again. How embarrassing, cheeks turn from their ghostly color back to cherry red in a matter of seconds. Dear mother of Christ what had she gotten herself into. A few more questions are asked, she answers them numb with shock. As to what they are, well her memory doesn’t serve her well.

It’s the arrival home that is the worst though. Drudging her feet, every bone in her body aches.  Her mother flounders around her in a panic, what had happened? Why was she so tired? Why had she left Hovik to do his own thing, for the mother of Christ how had she managed to stay safe without company? The questions were endless, and her answers mindless. But apparently something pleased her mother and she finally left Nixie to rest in peace. Days pass, the first few a butterfly or two would flutter around in her gut, but as chores and the regularity of life set in the matter seemed to drift away. She wasn’t going to get in, but it was nice to dream. Two weeks pass before someone knocks at the door. Who could be visiting, no one that she knew of that’s for sure. Reaching to unlock the heavy wood she lets it slide open. When she sees the Herald her jaw drops. What did they want her for? Then it flickers back in her mind. The application. By order of the king, you are to appear at the palace in two day’s time. If… at that her heart stopped, and she heard nothing more. She runs out to the barn it wasn’t worth exciting her family over just yet. There was still a chance that one of the other selected would do better than herself. No a simple note would do, tell them that she was out of town for a few days to run errands. That would do, it would have to work.

She checks around for anyone within sight, but they seemed to be hard at work in the fields. Making a dash for the barn she grabs the horse by the halter leading her out to the street. There she scrambles onto the mares back clutching at the mane for reigns. Making her way towards town she travels through the square, past the large buildings of the prestigious and wealthy. Finally arriving at the palace. She halts in front of the gates the grandeur of the building more than intimidating.
The guards grab her horses halter and she slides off before they lead the mare away. The pudgy herald stepping forth to open the gates for her. Almost ominous the hinges cry out giving her a cringe. This way, I will show you to your rooms. Rooms? Did he just say rooms?! It seems to take a life time to reach the building, but when the doors are opened, she is dwarfed to nothing more than a mouse. Eep! She squeaks in surprise. Every bit of confidence shattered. The gold lace dripping down the walls. Creamy, and soft they appear softer than her bed and favorite blanket could ever be. She almost feels jealous of the lacy gold. The chandelier cascading with crystal, the doors bordered with golden designs, intricate and obscure. The same design plastering the lounge and couches that were currently filled with chatty women and men. Tinkling crystal filled with the finest wines, grapes the size of, well nothing that she had ever seen before. Fragrances of popery, roses, and perfumes filled the air. Plush red carpet felt like a bath to her tender feet. This place was built for royalty. Of course… her lips thin into a straight line, how dumb could she get. He leads her up a stair well. It could fit thirty people shoulder to shoulder she would wager on it. Enormous that was the word to describe this place absolutely enormous. Its only when she looks down that she manages to bump into someone. Oops, I’m sorry the man scowls down at her. He dazzled her, draped in the same gold that was on the walls, she wondered as to who this was. But he kept moving just as the heralds purple face turns to her. Stupid girl He mumbles.

Finally in her chambers she finds not only a bed that could be filled by her entire family, but also a water closet, and a sitting room. All of which were huge, and amazingly furnished. Plush couches, a bath tub, and an outstanding view from a miniature balcony, a fully equipped dressing table. Life just couldn’t get better than this. No wonder the royals locked themselves up in here, she wouldn’t want to leave either if she had a choice. After a long soak, she opens the armoire, only to find silk dresses in an array of color, along with some other cotton nightgowns, though filmy as they were, she couldn’t resist a blush. Braiding up her hair she ties it with one of the bows provided, and lets the filmy gown drop over her now unclothed body. Looking in the full length mirror she blushed to her hair roots almost everything was visible. Her mother would never approve. Yet this was the most conservative gown she could find. And on that note she turned to the bed worn out from all the activity, and the insane amount of adrenaline she had gone through. Unable to even get herself under the covers the cushiony bed swallowed her up as she drifted into dreamland. .

Nixie

I love him in abondment of reason.




RE: Round 1-The Announcement - Heartfire - 04-28-2016

Show them the joy and the pain and the ending

For a moment, she is someone else. Someone as free and fierce as the wind, with haunting visions in her eyes and untamed thoughts in her head. But then she wakes up with a start, dreams and reality jangling inside her skull like a broken bell. She doesn’t know why, but she feels the sudden urge to look at herself. The mirror. The thought is there, in her mind, but for a moment it feels heavy and odd.

Throwing the blankets from her pajama clad legs, she hurries over to the dressing table across the room. It is an old piece – though she cannot be sure just how old – but it has been lovingly cared for, the oak wood dark and warm with years of gentle touches interspersed by cleaning and polishing. The smooth glass of the mirror is unpitted and clean, offering a perfect reflection (she is certain it has been replaced at least once or twice).

The pale face staring back at her is framed by a mass of wild red hair, clear eyes wide and blue in milk-white features dotted by a sparse spray of freckles. It is surreal, looking at her face in that perfect mirror, almost as though it does not belong. But then the pieces click into place and the moment is forgotten.

She is Heartfire, daughter of Nicholas and Raelle, a college professor and a private tutor. In truth, her parents are more poets than anything else. Perhaps it could not be their life, but it is their passion. It is how she had ended up with such an unusual name. Who knows what they had been reading when they found it, but her mother had been pregnant, she had been born with red hair, and as they say, the rest is history.

With a soft sigh, she sits at the chair before the dressing table, still staring at her wan features in the dim light. For a moment, she wonders what will become of her in this unsettled world. Unrest echoes in the streets as everybody holds their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her family does well enough, but they are not in the protected upper echelons, nor are they so poor as to avoid notice by those stirring the pot. Her parents are worried, but she is not. Not yet, at least.

Change is coming, and she has every intention of being right in the middle of it.

--

The notification comes at breakfast. Her father is sitting in his usual place at the head of the table, her mother to his right and she to the left, when the notice of an announcement arrives in the post. It is an invitation (more, a demand) to appear at the town square to hear what the King and Queen have to say.

Her interest is immediately piqued. She snatches the card from her father the moment he is finished reading it, bright blue eyes scanning the text for any clue as to what the announcement may be. When she finds nothing beyond the simple message printed in plain black text upon a white sheet, she tosses the paper to the table, leaning back against the stiff ladder-back chair with a sigh of disgust. Her mother’s censure is palpable as she stares at her from across their breakfast in silent admonishment.

Heartfire only offers her mother a small, tight-lipped smile in response. To be honest, if they hadn’t managed to instill more decorum into her by now, it’s unlikely they would succeed at this late date.

And the red-haired girl is perfectly fine with that.

--

When the time comes, she joins her parents for the short trip to the town square. The normally bustling market is bursting with people today, the cobbled streets and narrow stalls overflowing with the curious, shoppers, and rambunctious children. The noise is deafening, but Heartfire ignores the assault to her ears as her bright gaze scans the crowd, a small grin lingering at the corners of her lips as she finds friends and acquaintances scattered throughout the busy square.

With only a few short delays and snippets of conversation caught between the din of the crowd, she nears the podium. Her parents halt when the mass becomes too thick to pass through easily, arms linked as they glance around, looking for the Royal messenger while talking animatedly. Heartfire uses their distraction to slip away, edging nearer to the podium.

Her mother notices, of course, her sharp exclamation of ”Heartfire!” ringing behind her as she squeezes through the packed bodies. She ignores it, though she does not doubt she would pay for it later. She has always been a bit of a wild card, living her simple life as close to the edge as she dares. And right now, her mother’s anger registers as only a blip on the radar of her awareness.

Besides, her parents love her too much to punish her too terribly for any perceived crimes.

A few moments of wiggling and shimmying bring her much closer to the stage. Planting herself in a relatively open spot, she finds herself standing next Madame Wilmet, a dress-maker and notorious gossip. It takes her only half a moment to recognize Heartfire, giving her all the opportunity she needs to lean in and start talking, offering, unsolicited she might add, her rather tart opinion on the presence of so many soldiers. Heartfire only nods, rolling her eyes as she turns away to watch the happenings on the platform.

As a tall, rather rotund man makes his way onstage, Heartfire straightens, chasing a wayward strand of fiery hair from her eyes with slender fingers as her gaze fixes on the messenger. In record time, the noise level diminishes to almost nothing.

The message the man imparts leaves Heartfire momentarily agape. The announcement of such a contest is not even remotely something she had expected from the Royal family. Snapping to the present, she glances around, trying the gauge the response of the crowd. The man has not even managed to exit the stage before sound erupts from the waiting crowd. The screaming girls and conspiring parents debating the merits of such an event could likely be heard by the deaf.

As the square slowly clears, Heartfire stands rooted to the spot. Her mind is running over the possibilities with frantic interest, debating the pros and cons of entering such an event. At nineteen, she just barely makes the cutoff, but does she truly wish to take part in such a time-wasting, inane event?

Certainly it is an intriguing prospect, but she has little interest in actually marrying the Prince. Men are great and all, but there are so many better things to give her attention to.

In the end, it is really no decision at all. Realistically her odds of actually being selected are next to none, and if by some miracle she does get chosen, it would be a truly enlightening experience. At the very least, she might learn something useful about the Royal family.

Choice made, she turns towards the retreating crowd. She has never been one to vacillate, and having made up her mind, she sees no point in wasting her time any further. She would submit the application and let fate (or whoever made those decisions) take it from there. It takes her only a moment to find her parents, who happen to be browsing the stalls of goods, and inform them of her decision. It surprises her not at all that both are completely on-board. Her mother has, after all, been dropping hints for some time now that it is perhaps time she settle down.

She doesn’t waste her breath trying to tell her mother that the likelihood of her being chosen is almost non-existent.

The line at the town hall is already long, an impressive number of people having already decided to enter themselves into the contest. There is quite a bit of excited chatter as they wait for the doors to open, though Heartfire, for her part, remains largely silent.

As soon as the doors open, the line surges forward. The volume doubles as people begin shouting excitedly and pushing forward to get their grasping fingers upon one of those precious pieces of paper. Heartfire slaps a hand to her mouth as laughter threatens to erupt.

“Good lord, you’d think that paper is made of gold the way these people are grabbing it,” she says to her mother, struggling to contain her giggles. In truth, it’s either laugh or turn away in disgust, and she would much rather laugh.

She can almost feel her mother’s sigh as Raelle reaches up to comb her fingers through Heartfire’s hair in a futile attempt to tame the wild strands.  ”Dear Heart,” her mother begins protractedly, causing Heartfire to press her hand to her mouth in order to stifle the grin tugging at her lips. She knows that tone all too well. She’d have thought her mother would have given up on these kinds of lectures eons ago. ”With that attitude, I don’t know why you’re even bothering to enter,” she says plaintively. ”Do I need to remind you that you are also standing in line for one of those golden pieces of paper?” The last is said in a tone that only a long-suffering mother can achieve, accompanied by a distinctly exasperated glance.

Clearing her throat, Heartfire drops her hand from her lips, still struggling to keep the laughter from her lips. ”Of course not, mother.” Her tone is as serious as she can make it, given the situation. ”But here, let me show you how a rational person should behave when doing this.” With the last quip barely off her tongue, she steps forward to receive an application with a dignity that belies her former mirth.

Application in hand, Heartfire retreats with her parents to a small table provided for the express purpose of filling out such pieces of paper. It takes only a moment find a pen (thank heavens for her father’s penchant of keeping one on his person at all times. The college professor in him at work) and then Heartfire and her mother are hunched over the small table, reading and answering the questions in soft whispers.

Heartfire thinks that some of the questions are rather odd, but then, she has never needed to conduct a search for a husband before. Really, do they actually need to know her favorite animal? Color, she might be able to understand, even flower she could understand. But what is he going to do, give her a lynx? The rest – height, weight, hair color, eye color, measurements (really?), talents, likes, dislikes – she could maybe see some merit to. But the whole thing seems a little ridiculous to her all the same.

Still, what are the odds?

--

Two weeks later, the Selected are announced. To be honest, Heartfire had nearly forgotten she had entered. Of course, the way people kept nattering on about the whole business, it would have been impossible to completely forget, but she did her very best.

That is, until the Selection announcement was released and her name was among the chosen.

To say that she had been surprised, shocked, flabbergasted, would have been an understatement. And now, in the span of about forty five minutes, her life has been turned completely upside down. First come the well-wishers. Their friends and neighbors are at their door in a matter of minutes, arriving at lightning speed to congratulate her and revel in the glory of knowing someone who has been propelled into fame in a matter of minutes.

And then come the government officials and the reporters. For the most part, the guards and palace officials keep the nosy reporters at bay, but they cannot stop the excitement and shouted questions any time they catch sight of her. It does not take her long to decide that this would get really old, really fast.

Nor does it take her long to regret her (rather impulsive) decision to enter into the contest.

--

The next day she is woken early to prepare for her journey to the Royal palace. She is fortunate perhaps that her parents are not totally destitute as that means she actually has some decent clothing to wear. Rosalie, the woman who seems to be in charge of the retinue of guards and staff, had been prompt in informing her of their expectations and of what would happen once she arrives at the palace. Apparently, one of the perks of being among the Selected is a new wardrobe, but not until she actually gets to the palace.

She cannot help the small piece of her that gets a little thrill out of those words. She is a woman who likes clothes, after all.

In short order, she is awake and clothed in an emerald green dress that complements her hair and complexion. It is one of her best dresses, made of finer cloth than her everyday wear, with a scooped neckline and a bodice that fits snugly against her slender frame before falling into a long, smooth skirt. While she might be rather scornful of this entire spectacle, at the very least she will look good as she makes a fool of herself.

After a hastily consumed breakfast, she, along with her family, is ushered from their home and into a carriage that would take them to the train station. The carriage is rather plain, similar to ones she has been in a hundred times before, but the train is another story entirely. On the outside, it looks like any other train traveling along the winding tracks, but stepping into the large car is akin to stepping into another world. The interior is plush and elegant, bedecked in lustrous satin and velvet upholstery in vibrant hues of teal and ochre. The warmth of the polished wood tables, benches, and accents lend a more intimate atmosphere to the car than might otherwise be expected of such an opulent space. For a moment, Heartfire can only stare in slack-jawed amazement.

Her amazement does not last for long however, before quickly giving way to curiousity. Stepping lightly into the car, the normal click of her boot heel is silenced by thick carpeting. She does a single circuit of the space, peering out windows and through doors into the attached cars. But as Rosalie clears her throat to capture her attention, she is forced to abandon her inspection.

”Miss Wickham, we will be leaving shortly. Now would be the time to bid your parents farewell,” the woman says as she stands stiffly near the entrance. Heartfire wonders briefly if perhaps she has a stick up her spine, but, wisely, she refrains from commenting.

Within a matter of minutes she has hugged her parents and bade them goodbye. And then the doors are closed just before the train lurches into motion. The journey itself is several hours long – most of which Heartfire spends with her nose all but pressed against the window as she watches the landscape flash by – interrupted only briefly by a midday luncheon. Green hills and blue sky whir past her window, interspersed occasionally by wood and brick and glass as they pass a town. No further stops are made, so without any delay, they arrive at the capital’s train station.

From there she is taken to the palace by horse. Her mare is a lovely, quiet creature with a slim frame, soft brown eyes, and a coat of the palest dappled gray. She pauses a moment to stroke the mare’s neck, memory niggling at the back of her mind as she does so.

She has no time to ponder it however, as she is soon assisted into the saddle by an ever vigilant palace guard. She feels somewhat awkward and heavy and she settles into the side saddle, both legs slung over the left side of the mare. Hopefully she is not inclined to do anything too outrageous, Heartfire thinks, otherwise she would certainly fall. While she has had opportunity to ride before, it has always been astride, so the experience is a rather novel one.

The scenery as they approach the palace is stunningly gorgeous, but nothing compared to her first sighting of the palace as they crest a small hill. Turrets spiral into the clear sky from a luxurious and sprawling building the color of lemon chiffon. The stonework is massive and exquisite, the sight of which, when combined with the rest of the picturesque building, quite takes her breath away.

She should really stop being so impressed. All of this awe is not doing anything for her reputation (never mind the fact that no one here actually knows anything of her reputation. Semantics).

Her feelings as they enter the palace are mixed, part excitement and part antipathy. She had never actually expected to be here, but now that she is, she cannot quite decide how to make the best of it. In truth, she is mostly overwhelmed, though she would never admit to such a thing.

The tour takes much of the afternoon, becoming tumbled and hazy amidst a whirlwind of marble and gilt and silken tapestries. Before she knows it, she has been deposited in a suite of rooms as beautiful and ostentatious as the rest of the palace with only a parting reminder that she would be served dinner in her rooms.

She takes the brief respite to survey her space, elegantly appointed in lovely shades of rose and cream. She lingers at a large side table with scrolling woodwork before pausing in front of a gilt-framed mirror to inspect her pale features. Her blue eyes look too large for her face, her freckled cheeks pale in the dimming light. Jerking herself away from her reflection with a disgruntled huff, she moves to the lounge area and settles herself onto the pink satin settee to wait.

Dinner arrives with maid, whose name she learns is Amy, and a reprieve from her tumbling thoughts. After dinner, she convinces Amy (with no small amount of effort on her part) that she is perfectly capable of undressing herself before retiring to her new (and no doubt very temporary) bedroom. Once in an unsurprisingly luxurious nightgown, she settles into a massive bed as downy soft as a basket of kittens, and before she knows, she is drifting off into sleep.

Heartfire

i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts




RE: Round 1-The Announcement - Kirke - 04-28-2016

peel away the layers till you're nothing and no one

When she awakens she immediately knows that something is wrong.

She stays still for a moment, assessing. She’s lying on her back somehow, and there’s something soft lying over top of her. She can hear voices nearby, but they’re soft, as if the sound is partly blocked out by something. She experimentally wiggles her fingers …

Wait. FINGERS?!

Kirke sits bolt upright, accidentally throwing off the down blanket that had been covering her. She reaches her arms out in front of her, staring at the hands that are now at the ends of them. The hands covered in soft, pinkish flesh that travels up her arms … and covers the rest of her body.

She feels at her face, discovering an oval shaped face with front facing eyes, a slender nose, a set of soft lips, and a long mane of wavy blonde hair.

She’s human.

She’s a freaking human.

Kirke sits for a moment, mind whirring. There’s only two explanations she can think of, and only one that really makes sense. The faeries … the faeries are up to something.

She’s heard about the tricks that faeries play of course - she’d heard the tales growing up, told to her as bedtime stories when she was a child. Sometimes the faeries are benevolent, other times, more than cruel. She wonders what the faery’s intention is in this case, but there’s no way to know. The faeries are all powerful and even if she were able to figure out this particular faery’s reasons, there’s nothing she could even begin to do about it. So she might as well slip into the role the faerie has given her and simply let whatever will be, be.

The sound of voices outside grows louder, and Kirke decides to investigate. She swings her legs off the bed and her feet brush against the wooden floor. She shudders at the sudden sensation. Soooo weird. She’s abruptly aware of the fact that her new ‘covering’ (this strange smooth, almost hairless skin) is not enough to protect her from the elements and and a shiver shoots through her body. She looks down at herself - she’s wearing a thin linen gown (she’s surprised to find that she knows what these things are, more faerie magic she suspects …) that is definitely not enough. She stands and walks over to an old chest on the floor. She opens it and looks inside - it’s full of worn dresses that look like they will fit her new body. She picks the one on top - a high necked grey wool concoction that’s decorated with fraying black lace. She slips into it as quickly as she can (she’s still not used to these fingers), yanks on a pair of black high heeled boots that sit by the door, and slips out into a hall, where she instantly stumbles (why the hell do humans wear boots like these?!). Once she’s righted herself, she follows the hallway to a another door, and opens it to the outside.

She pauses in the open doorway, taking in this new world that the faerie has plopped her in. Small stone and wood buildings line an empty cobblestone street, the smell of oil and filth lying thick upon the air. She’s surprised at the emptiness, but when she looks to her left she immediately spots the source of the voices she’d heard earlier. A massive crowd has gathered in the square at the end of the street. Curious, she approaches (stumbling still over the cobblestones, damn boots) and slips in through the back of the crowd. Shops and and people litter the square, everyone chattering amongst themselves with obvious excitement. Kirke moves from shop to shop, pretending to look through the wares, but really trying to find the source of the commotion. She stops at a tailor shop and is surprised to discover that she feels like she’s known the woman working there for years. But of course she knows her … she and Helen had grown up together, had gone to school together, had spent their days playing in the streets and whispering about their weddings in the far, far off future. And she remembers now what the hubbub is about - the royal family is making an announcement today, a most unusual event!

Kirke shakes her head suddenly, trying to get rid of the fog still floating about in her mind. Unbeknownst to her, the magic is finally fully taking hold. My goodness, she thinks to herself. That’d been quite the dream she’d had, to have confused her so. And to think, she’d thought she’d been a horse, even so much so that she’d forgotten how to use her fingers and walk in her own boots! How ridiculous! Perhaps she should pay a visit to Doctor Rankin later, just to make sure everything is alright. For now though she’s going to stick around - she’s just as curious as everyone else to see what all the fuss will be about!

Mumbling apologies to Helen she makes her way back into the crowd and towards the podium as the decreed hour is drawing near. As Kirke approaches the small stage a woman turns to her, an incredulous look on her face. “You would think we were rioting with all the police and royal guard present.” Kirke nods noncommittally before turning her face back to the podium. She understands the woman’s point (even agrees), but she’s far more interested in the announcement than getting into a political discussion.

After a short wait, a tall portly man dressed in the royal livery steps up to the podium and unfolds a letter. The whole crowed, Kirke included, leans forward slightly in anticipation. “By Royal Decree …”

Kirke listens with rapt attention as the herald describes the monarch’s contest, and before he’s even finished speaking she knows that she will enter.

For Kirke’s entire life, all she has ever wanted to do is make her father proud of her. Her father, Kirin, is a wonderful man - the leader of the good church of Khaos in their town. He is the patriarch of their extended family and, unfortunately for Kirke, her older half sister Aily is the apple of his eye. She’s lived in Aily’s shadow for her entire life and no matter how hard she tries, she can never seem to get out from under it.

But this … this could be her shot. This could be her chance to finally outshine Aily and gain her father’s approval and affection. After all, if she were to enter this contest and win, she would be queen of all Illea. Her father would have no choice but to be proud of her.

As the herald disappears into a group of royal soldiers and the crowd breaks up into small groups to discuss the announcement, Kirke remains frozen, thinking. Yes, she will do it. There will be a lot of risk involved, putting herself out there like this, but the possible gains … the possible gains are worth it.

She doesn’t head for the town hall immediately, instead turning in the direction of home. She pretends to not to see Helen’s frantic gestures to join her back in the tailor shop. Helen will just want to discuss the news and make fun of the potential applicants. She doesn’t understand - Helen is the only child of an infertile couple, a miracle in the eyes of her parents. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be desperate for a parent’s approval.

Once she’s out of Helen’s line of sight she changes her path, slipping down an alley way in the direction of the town hall. There’s no point in waiting, her mind is already made up.

She reaches the town hall quickly, and joins the already present line of women waiting to to apply. Kirke can’t help but snort at some of the faces she sees in line - many of them are spinsters, desperate women grasping at this last thread of hope. The heir won’t give them a second glance. But a few, a few are likely to be competition.

After some time, it’s finally her turn to apply and she stands at the desk with her pen poised over the piece of paper. What can she say about herself, to make herself appealing? She’s the same as many other women in this hole of a town, with the exception of the church she belongs to. And that she won’t be mentioning. Not yet anyhow. Many of the people in her town falsely think of her family and church as a cult, and create cruel and baseless rumours that they spread amongst the townspeople. She will have to be honest about her origins at some point of course, but there’s no need to mention it now and ruin her chances before she’s even begun.

Instead she paints the picture of a good and honest peasant, an innocent young woman well skilled at sewing and needlework, and a love of all animals. And to create a little more interest, a little more mystery, she mentions something else - her skills in self defence. Unusual in a young lady to be sure, but she can think of nothing else to make herself stand out above the rest beyond her appearance, which the court artist that had been left behind manages to capture quite nicely (though he can’t replicate the deep purple of her eyes with his pencil).

When she finally does leave her heart is in her throat. She’s never wanted anything so badly in her life. She just knows that, if she could just get selected, if she could just win her father would be so, so proud of her.

She spends the next two weeks praying desperately to Khaos. If he could just help her, if could just give her this one wish …

In the end, her prayers are answered. For when the herald returns with his list two weeks later, her name is one of the few that is called. She’s filled with elation at the news and when she returns home to let her family know, she doesn’t miss the pang of jealousy that crosses Aily’s face, nor the look of open pride on her father’s face.

He sees her off at the station the next morning (Aily is ‘mysteriously’ absent) and as she steps onto the train she’s almost overcome with nerves. What if it all goes wrong? What if she fails? What if the prince hates her at first sight?

She gives herself a good shake before moving to find a seat. There’s no use worrying about it. She will give it her best shot, and whatever will be, will be.

Hours later she is picked up at the final train station by a horse and carriage that will take her on to the palace. It’s possibly the most extravagant thing she’s ever ridden in, all gold and rich cherrywood, pulled by the most magnificent specimen of a horse she’s ever seen. She can just imagine Aily going bright red with envy. At least, even if she fails in the end, she’ll have stories to make her half-sister’s head spin.

The trip to the palace from the station is relatively short, and in half an hour she’s finally there. She’s aware that she’s tired from the trip, but at the same time it’s all she do to remain seated and wait for the footman to open the carriage door. When he does, she nearly launches herself down the carriage steps and instantly freezes at the sight in front of her.

The palace is everything she’d ever imagined and more. A wide cobbled path, lined with stone walls and beautifully carved statues, winds it’s way towards the most beautiful building she’s ever seen. Well maintained yellowed walls rise up into towers and high spired roofs - she hopes that, while she’s here, she’ll get the chance to see the view from one of those towers. The place is a bustle of activity though, and she’s given no time to ogle. She’s quickly ushered away from the main pathway (it’s only for foreign dignitaries the footman explains) and towards a smaller path, and smaller door off to the side. But, even though this is a side door, she’s still blown away by what she finds inside. The hall is painted in a soft green, and trimmed everywhere in gold. Beautiful, detailed paintings line the walls. She peers in at the closest one, a massive depiction of a great battle scene. Her fingers lift to brush at one of the horses …

“Don’t touch that please!” A maid pops up beside her and immediately begins to take charge. She gives Kirke a little prod, pushing her forward along the hall into another extravagant room, and then another beautiful hallway, then another dazzling room, and another yet another hallway …

The rooms become a blur of red, gold and expensive woods, and by the time they stop at thick wooden door, Kirke is beginning to feel a little overwhelmed. “This will be your room.” The maid gives the door a shove and they both step inside. The room is just as stunning as everything else she’s seen, with a thick carpet underfoot, a magnificent white and gold fireplace, and a tall red and gold four poster bed. In front of the fireplace sits a little table and chair, and atop the table a silver tray of what appears to be food. The maid gives her a patient smile. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Eat up, and get some sleep.” Then she turns and slips out, closing the heavy door behind her.

Kirke walks over to the bed and sits down with a thump, ignoring the steaming tray of food. She’s too tired and overwhelmed to even think about eating now. She slips off her boots and leans back on the bed, intending to only rest just a little bit. But, almost instantly her eyelids begin to feel heavy. And, as she drifts off to sleep, she can’t help but wonder what the competition will have in store for her tomorrow.

kirke




RE: Round 1-The Announcement - Kagerus - 04-29-2016

Bonfires, poetry, and livin' life right and there's
Beaches, boats, sailing, togetherness
The feelin' like you're smilin' even brighter when the weather's shit

It was not unlike the newly flowered girl to daydream - though that is an ill begotten term for the thoughts which ran rampant through her galaxy of a mind. It all began long ago. As a small child at her father’s knee, she was wont to make up fantastical lands in her mind, planets wherein she could hide herself from the hardships of life, solar systems that were unique to her. The children in her school-class would often laugh when the abstract girl shared her other-worlds with them: you are foolish, Kagerus! You will become lost like your mother soon enough! They would taunt. And although the children’s cruelty caused the girl to take her studies into her small, happy cottage, she did not want for companionship: her ever present father, Kavi, made for the best of friends.

“Where are you, Kagerus?” The aged man whispered from across the table upon which they broke their fast. His graying gold locks fell haphazardly around his angular face, a face reminiscent of the regal aura the monarchy wore. A spoon of hot, steaming oatmeal floated just in front of his smile-crinkled mouth, momentarily forgotten as he gazed fondly upon his beloved daughter, who sat in an identical position, but who stood in another world completely.

With a smile worthy of the sun, Kagerus’ nutmeg eyes refocused on the world around her: the old-fashioned but comfortable wood furnishings, the paintings her mother made before disappearing hanging perfectly straight along the peeling walls, the tea kettle boiling in the kitchen just yonder, and, most lovely of all, her patient, doting father.

“Oh, Da, I was in Beqanna! You know the one!” She exclaimed, searching Kavi’s amber eyes for recognition of this world and rushing on once she found it. “We were just off for a visit to Mum’s, in that Jungle she loves so much, and we ran and whinnied and our tails flew high behind us - it was glorious, Da, wish you could have been there!” Laughing quietly to herself, Kagerus looks to the dregs of her breakfast and pushes them about, wishing she could fade back into her favourite land for the rest of time.

But alas, it was not to be: her land was not Beqanna.

It was Illea, and today, ah, today there was to be an announcement.

Reaching up with a feather-light hand to push away a stray lock of long, dark auburn hair, Kagerus looked to Kavi, quiet now that she had been forced back to reality, to poverty, and to a sometimes-loneliness. Her old, tired father sighed a happy sigh, and rose from their once-lovely table to collect the dishes of the morning meal.

“Go on now, Rou, and get dressed. I’ll clean up here in the meantime, and then we shall be off to the square.”

Planting a good, warm kiss on the top of her sloping head, Kavi trundled off into the kitchen, whistling a tune his wife used to sing, oblivious to the changes which were about to overtake his small, albeit happy, family.
Rising now to her long, elegant legs, the nineteen year old youth turned and walked calmly up the rickety stairs towards her bedroom with a lithe hand resting on the worn handrail. As she dressed herself that morning, Kagerus tried to reimagine herself as that beautiful bay-overo filly gallivanting through the Jungle with her buckskin father, but by the time she and that self-same father left for the announcement, the image was completely eradicated from her mind.

There would not be much time for daydreaming in the days to come, after all.

Arm in arm, father and daughter wandered pleasantly through the outskirts of town, calling to neighbours and waving hello to strangers they happened upon. The pair passed by homey cottages which were a juxtaposition onto themselves, with crumbling walls and failing roof thatches, and they passed by dairy cows which mooed their pleasure of the warm morning sun, and now and then they even leaned down to scratch the ears of a gentle stray dog. Yes, their way of travel was a wandering, and happy, quiet wanderers they were.

The closer to the square they got, however, the more withdrawn they became. Neighbours no longer heralded them with news of the family farm, and stray dogs were more likely to bite than to whine their happy, doggy whine. Kavi’s strong, sinewy arm tightened its grip around Kagerus’, and his amber eyes grew very watchful, for it was loud in the centre of the town, and as hermits, noise was as dangerous to them as frost was to their crops.

With eyes half-closed in a show of languid confidence and lips touching but teeth apart, Kagerus surveyed the chaos about them. Men spoke thunderously and in great groups, while gaggles of women shouted boorishly and simpered their need for male companionship. It all made her uncomfortable, but her facial expression portrayed none of these thoughts - with her chin held high, she passed by the mayhem with a grace  that many farmer’s daughters never grew to have.

“Oh, look, Rou, your cousin Straia is working in her shoppe today!” Putting on a polite, reserved smile, the young woman followed complacently behind her father and greeted her cousin with a kiss on both cheeks. Despite all the noise about them, Kagerus tried to pay her utmost attention to her beautiful tailor-cousin, nodding all the while and caressing her kin’s tamed raven in an attempt to seem, well, interested. But the polish of her act soon wore off, and with another exchange of kisses, Kavi and Kagerus departed from the shoppe.

“Always nice to see cousin Rai,” the auburn-haired girl murmured so that only Kavi could hear. “Even if she has a strange taste in animal companionship.”

Laughing a deep, smoky laugh, Kavi inhaled to reply, but was cut off by the unhappy bellowing of a woman not far from them.

“You would think we were rioting with all the police and royal guard present!”

Nodding awkwardly to the ruffled biddy, father and daughter slid further into the crowd, in close to the oak-wood stage. Kagerus’ nutmeg eyes took in all the sights: the Illean Regulars in their snapping red uniforms, the sleepy-looking officials with their dastardly wigs, and all the bustling citizens around them. It was all very, very much to take in, and Kagerus was glad to have her attention redirected to the bumbly little speaker who trundled up to the centre of the stage.

Silence fell like thick snow on Christmas day with the opening of the speaker’s parchment paper. Kagerus felt the electricity of the men’s desire for a revolution, and sensed the quivering of feeble female knees. She, herself, didn’t know just what to think; Illea was on the verge of something, whether it liked it or not, and this unseemly announcement from the monarchy… well, something was cooking in Fate’s stew.

“By Royal Decree, I am authorized to share the following message from the King and Queen to the general public of Illea.

We have heard your concerns. We want to make it known that our thoughts are not only with those within our family, but with all of our people. That is why we are going to hold a competition. This competition will end with a single one of our loyal subjects being granted the Illean heir's hand in marriage. We hope this will help unite our kingdom once more and bring forth a new era of understanding.

All those interested in entering will need to fill out an application at their local town hall. The application will consist of general information, personal accomplishments and goals, as well as a sketch of yourself, which you will be able to have drafted upon entering. All questions can be addressed to your Selection Ambassador, who will be available at the towne center. The application deadline will be one week from today, and the town hall will open in one hour to begin taking applications.

Oh, yes, almost forgot, you must be between the age of 19-24 to enter. Thank you.”


Chaos ensues, and for the friendly hermits, it is all too much.

Soon they are home once more, free from the caterwauling women and the ever scheming men, free from the stink of the city square and the noise of it all. Kagerus replied minimally to her father for the rest of the day, hidden in the storm clouds of her thunderous thoughts. And as the moon rose and both hermits were tucked snuggly into their warm beds, Fate came to the daughter and spooned her a cup of His stew.

Over the course of the next few days, Kagerus’ grew ever more and ever more desirous of the Selection. She understood the political insinuations this meant, and that did not scare her; hermit though she may be, the girl was perceptive, cunning, and lucratively intelligent. Furthermore, she missed her mother, and her brother, too. Both of them had disappeared without a trace, and although that was not uncommon in Illea, it least Kagerus with a deep pang of loneliness that she simply could not cure with the simpletons who lived about her.

Perhaps this heir will be of my intelligence… Perhaps he will have lands, too, places he escapes to. And in the least, this competition shall forestall Da from giving me away in marriage to some drab… I know he means well, but our pockets are mighty light, and I know what a bridegroom may pay for a newly flowered girl such as me.

As soon as she thought that thought, it did not leave. Rather, the opposite: the thought became so consistent that it ate away at her and frayed her nerves until, at last, she acted impulsively.

Under the ruse of fetching water from the well in the towne centre, Rou left early on the last day of the week to seek out the towne hall. She was dressed simply, with her dark auburn hair done up in a classic bun. Upon her feet were plain slippers, and in her eyes, a spark of anxiety so bright, it could only be excitement.

“Yes, hello, I would like to apply for the Selection. No, I am not joking, sir, I am not one who jokes. Very well, I shall wait for you to find your quill; ready now? Ah, I thought so. My name is Kagerus Zon, Rou for short. I am a farmer’s daughter, age nineteen. I am pure of virtue and clean and all that nonsense. Goals? It would interest me greatly to be a political figurehead of some kind further down the line of my life, a diplomat perhaps? Yes, that sounds like my goal. Accomplishments? Well, I have run my father’s farm with only his help for the past many years; my hands know work, but are still soft and gentle, so the Heir needn’t fear for that. What else is it that you need? A sketch? Well, very well, be on with it now.”

Standing erect and with the full Look on her angular face (eyes hooded, lips together, teeth apart), Kagerus waited impatiently for the pudgy man to finish his sketch. This certainly is a big pail of water she is drawing from the well - ah, well, the ruse was never meant to hold up, anyhow. Smiling primly when the attendant signalled he had finished, Kagerus looked momentarily upon the drawing, and nodded her satisfaction. Her dark auburn hair curled just right from her bun, her crisp collar bones shone from beneath her simple dress, her freckled cheeks sat high upon their bones, and her nutmeg eyes seemed to glow. “Yes, this will do very well, sir, and I thank you.”

Without bothering to fill a pail of water on her return home, Kagerus wondered in which universe she would ever be selected to take part in this competition. Surely the Heir would over look a simple farm girl without second thought; Kagerus would do the same, if she were royalty. Not because she would want to, of course, but because as a monarch, there were simply too many subjects to be able to take personal interest in each and every one of them.

But, of course, Fate has his ways.

Two weeks later, an acceptance letter came to their humble front door, and their lives exploded into a bustle of activity - the very thing they disliked, funnily enough. Never in a million years had either of them expected this turn of events (Kavi had, intuitively, known his daughter’s intentions upon that day a fortnight ago, but he had not intuitively known this). Ecstatic neighbours help Kagerus purchase new, glorious gowns of the like she has never even set fingers upon; frilly linens are gifted to her; and many more gifts are showered upon her. With the dawn of the very next day, the family’s two trunks are full to the brim and threaten explosion should one more item be placed in their grasp.

Luckily for them, the time to depart has come.

From with a horse-drawn carriage the carriage-company owner had delightedly lended to her needs, Kagerus gazed down tearfully at her father, trunks in lap. Everything had happened so quickly, and although she knew this was what would forestall her imminent engagement, she wasn’t so sure that Fate’s stew was sitting contentedly in her tummy anymore.

“Good-bye, Rou! Good-bye, Kagerus! Write to me, darling, and be safe!” Her father’s loving calls were the last words she heard for a long while as her carriage began bumping merrily along its way. She held the image of her blonde father with his hat waving above his head in her mind for as long as she could, but without much prompting, the girl soon had her head out the carriage window, nutmeg eyes drinking in all the new sights, smells, and sounds.

Oh.

The carriage came to a stop, and all the wilderness she had just been ensnared by seemed to dwindle in magnificence in comparison to the castle which stood before her now. Unlatching her door and stepping from it with a trunk in either hand, Kagerus breathily thanked her cabby, and began walking towards the elegant castle, mouth just slightly agape in wonder.

“Oh, miss, do allow me!” Starting at the generous sound of a man’s voice, Rou snapped the Look on to her face and turned to examine the speaker. It was a burly valet in a pristine black suit, with a curled moustache, just so. Kagerus does not blush.

“Thank you, sir…?”

“Rhaego, if it please you, miss…?”

“Rou. A pleasure, Rhaego.”


Walking now with her hands folded quietly in front of her, Kagerus followed Rhaego the valet obediently, but not timidly. Her eyes, forever at half-mast, did not fail to study every detail of the castle as they passed by it in what she believed to be quite a hurry. For a wandering lass, this tour business seemed much too hasty. She barely had time to memorize the masterpieces hung upon the towering walls, or to run her fingers along the finely engraved hand railings; she longed for an opportunity to admire the intricate, polished furniture of which she could surely never be an owner, and she wished for a chance to look in every door this impossibly large mansion could offer her.

Ever the obscure girl, Rou longed for the abstract: for what no one else could possibly long for.

So ensnared by the beauty and wonder of it all she become that, come nightfall, it felt as though she had only arrived but one heartbeat ago.

Fate’s stew,
A dollop for you,
And to sleep you go,
So little you know...

☼ Kagerus




RE: Round 1-The Announcement - Blazed - 04-29-2016

When it All Began...
I was asleep, content, when I heard a rapping on my door. I thought that my mother had awoken me. I got up. But then, I remembered that nobody was there. I remembered about the life I used to have before I left my family for the kingdom. I quickly dressed, brushed the snarls out of my red, silver, and blonde hair, wiped the sleep off of my face, did a little bit of cleaning up and went outside with a growing group in front of the announcements area.

They were declaring a search for the heir’s hand, and I listened excitedly. I had a rather stable job as a clerk at the nearby main bank, earned an amount of money that gave me a life that was well worth the long work days - I could even occasionally go to a restaurant for a fancy meal.

“This is interesting.” I say, excitedly, as I quickly get in the suddenly short line, and it was almost time for the entries to be opened. “Yay! Almost time!” Multiple people said. I simply shifted my feet more often than usual, and twirled my hair in impatience.

"The entries can now be submitted!" A voice rang out from the small building. Multiple people whispered and talked in excitement about this behind me, and people's names were said in front of me. I was next and then it was my turn. "Name? Age? Location?" The person asked tiredly."Hermione Farrow. I am 19 years old, and live just a little bit outside the main palace area of Illea." I say, happily, and give a slight head tilt.

Hmm... If I'm selected, then I have to deal with the others. If I'm not, I might be shamed for it. I'm worried about losing my family's pride and respect by not being selected. Could I withdraw?

It was odd, practicing more proper manners, until about a fortnight - or two weeks - later I saw a small letter, addressed to my name and from the Kingdom. "I'm selected! Yes!" I cry, and see the carriage awaiting me. "I'll be just a few moments." I call out to the footmen before darting inside for my things.

Dresses - the blue, dawn pink, and green ones with the white, red or black lacing designs for extra looks - and flats - the black and silver ones, for formality - along with my one pair of heels - black with a red inside that sticks out slightly - was stuffed neatly into a case, and then a small veil in case I won the Selection.
"Miss? Are you coming?" The man asks, chubby, with a snotty tone and false manners.
"Coming!" I shout out nicely, restraining myself the way I had trained myself to if annoyed. I had to appear independent, yet appeasing, strong yet yielding.

I got into the back of the carriage, with two grullo drafts in it. I noted the good conformation on the horses, and watched their smooth gait and was surprised by how smooth the ride was compared to my horse's gait at a canter. The ride went quickly, and I fit in a nap for a little while before we reached the castle. They took me to my new quarters, and I unpacked my things, looking at the high-quality bed in front of me.

Opening the covers after turning down the lantern on the bedside stool, I flopped down with a sigh and melted into the soft bed, amazed at how well the bed was made compared to mine. I didn't have a worry in the world as I fell into a deep sleep.


RE: Round 1-The Announcement - Lagertha - 04-29-2016

I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
The sun creeps through a crack in her makeshift, ragged curtains, and hits Lagertha in a strip right across her eyes. She groans, and lifts a hand to block it out; but alas, the day waits for no one, and as the single window in her little attic apartment faces East, the light comes streaming in whether she likes it or not. This morning is one of the ‘not’ variety. She crushes her eyes shut and rolls over, pulling the blanket over her head, trying to block out the noise of street as it begins to come to life. The smell of freshly baked bread wafts up from below and makes her stomach growl, so she curls herself into a smaller ball. Last night’s activities had taken more out of her than she’d thought they would; the aches and full-body soreness that persist like the sun only confirm her exhaustion. The last thing Lagertha wants to do right now is get out of bed.

The Resistance, however, is worth it if it brings change, so she grits her teeth and throws the blanket off, finally opening her eyes. The single bed creaks in protest as she pushes herself upright, glancing around the room as if one day, she would wake up and it would all be different. Maybe one day, it would be: the poor would not be so poor and sick, the rich, less rich and fat. Lagertha could feed herself with a day of honest work, but only if she continued to show up for it - there were many women far worse off than she, who had to turn to selling their bodies. Not that anyone would want her, she muses, as she strips off her nightshirt and walks over to the porcelain wash basin. Her body is muscle-hard and wiry; there is no softness to her, not in the blue-gray steel of her eyes or the lines of her jaw, not in the firmness of her legs, or scars that paint a picture across her torso. She is a man in all but name, and a novelty amongst the soldiers for hire. The court (those that choose to take a chance on her) only do so after she has proven herself thrice over, and then they still offer her less pay, as if her life were worth less than her male counterparts.

At least she has her self-respect, and the respect of her fellow mercenaries. Lagertha is the strange foreigner, the woman with the barbarous hair, and while she’s been in Illea for more than two years, she still elicits stares when she walks down the street. Those who have taken the time to get to know her welcome her with a slap on the back and a heartfelt hello, but there will always be others who hide behind their fears and whisper behind her back. Once, she’d considered twisting her hair up like the women do, but her fingers are far more adept at whisking her long blonde hair into intricate braids than they are at making it conform to demure elegance. Besides, she kind of enjoyed the looks she got. Weary eyes peer into the mirror above her wash basin and she chuckles before splashing some water on her face to wake herself up. Time to wrestle herself into some sort of civilized look.

Joining The Resistance was the best decision she’d made recently - even if it often made for long nights and even longer days. The thrill of working for something she believed in, versus simply guarding over-perfumed assholes was just the spark she needed. There is a certain act to all of it, she muses as she washes off last night’s film of sweat and dirt. The nobility never think of the woman who pretends to know very little of the Illean language; they speak freely in front of her, convinced that because she appears to be disinterested, because when she does talk, it is in broken Illean, and most importantly, because she is a foreign woman, that she does not fully comprehend the importance what they are saying. Lagertha is a safe choice to take into secret meetings. Lagertha is the Resistance’s secret weapon.

The bell tower loudly chimes the 7 o’clock hour, rousing Lagertha from her musings and prompting her to grab a fresh set of undergarments. She doesn’t wear the typical ladies’ pantaloons, but a free flowing men’s set. She takes a piece of linen and wraps it tightly around her breasts, pinning it securely in front. Can’t have those babies (small as they are) bouncing around and distracting her. Her current assignment is with Count Odo, and if she’s late, she’ll not only miss a hearty breakfast with the rest of the guards, but could potentially find herself out of a job, which would be terrible for the Resistance, as Odo is one of the King’s right hand men. Lagertha is not permitted to live in the barracks. Even the temptation of such a… tough woman such as herself could be too much temptation for the rest of the men. Ha! As if they didn’t know she would cut off their balls if they laid a hand on her. But the ‘rules’ gave her privacy, and despite the early morning and long walk, she is fond of her bare, tiny little attic room.

Finding her previous day’s clothes discarded on the lone chair in her room, she slips them back on, sporing worn black pants, heavy black leather boots, a cream colored linen shirt, gun holster, and a hip-length jacket bearing the Count’s colors of emerald and gold. From underneath her pillow, she grabs a pistol and tucks it into the holster, hiding it safely against her side. From a drawer in the table that holds the basin, she pulls two throwing knives and tucks one into each of her boots. That’s it for now, the Count outfits her with a bayonet and rifle.

Her stomach growls again, and Lagertha takes one last look into the mirror before taking five or six steps across the room to the door, and locks it behind her. Taking care not to clatter loudly down the stair of the house, Lagertha exits the three story, brick building and turns north, towards the city center. Already, bikes and horse-drawn carriages are beginning to fill the streets as the working class starts their day. Lagertha joins them, walking quickly from the edge of the run-down part, through the merchant’s neighborhoods, and up the sloping, stone-paved roadways, to the few walled estates. Like many cities in Illea, this one is laid out in a wide sort of spiral, with the ruling nobility’s estate at the top, then the merchants and upper class, then the working class, and so forth. The wealthy lived in Uptown, and the poor lived in Downtown. There was, however, only one market square, though another was being built Uptown, which means that it was the only place where the classes are brought together. Illea is very separated in that way. Only by wearing the Count’s colors is she ‘allowed’ to pass from one social circle to the next. Any street rat from Downtown would be be stopped.

Pass, she does, and with a friendly nod to the actual soldiers that patrol each segment of the city. They nod in return, as she is a familiar face by now. Luckily, Lagertha makes it to the servant’s entrance of Count Odo’s vast estate in time for breakfast, where she seems to inhale porridge and salt meat like a teenage boy. One of her friends, and fellow Resistance member, Philipe, cracks a joke about her having the insides of a man - and how did she work up such an appetite last night, by bringing home a whore? Lagertha laughs and silently thanks him, lest anything seem out of the ordinary. Her peers know only that she plays up the ‘dumb foreigner’ act, so in front of them, she is almost as proficient as she truly is. In true military fashion, she retorts by saying his father fucked her last night, and that he should expect a bastard sibling in nine months. The company roars with laughter.

The idea that anyone would want to lie with her is always hilarious to them. Their jesting is interrupted by the Captain, who comes into the small side kitchen to deliver the day’s assignment. Most of them were sent to guard the halls and walls, a few were selected for their turn with the Count’s personal guard… and Lagertha? The Captain said he had an important assignment for her. As the men disperse to their duties, the Captain pulls Lagertha to one side and tells her that their is going to be a special announcement in the market square today, and that he needs her to make sure the coast is clear for the Count and his family to come and listen to it. Her curiosity is piqued; their other spies had passed down word of a royal decree sometime soon, but they hadn’t been able to pin down when, or what it would be about. They couldn’t be too careful, the Captain said, what with the whispers of rebellion in the air. She nods, and sets out down the road to the square, shedding Odo’s colors in favor of a medallion with his personal seal on it - in order to ‘blend in with the crowds’ better.

Unfortunately, this is not the time for the Resistance to strike. As the hours pass and the sun climbs in the sky, the tension in the square is palpable. The herald comes with his own royal guard, creating an overwhelming police and military presence. The people are not used to this, and even though they go about their normal duties, many move uneasily through the crowded area. A few who know her call out her name, and Lagertha raises a hand to greet them, though she does not stop her observant eyes. The old man, Jean, at the tailore shoppe, the one who every now and then makes her custom garments beckons her over to inquire how business is and bemoan the pitfalls of growing old. She listens for a moment, to be polite, but ultimately her attention wanders back to her job and she politely excuses herself. Jean would talk all day, if someone let him.

As she continues her patrol,  one particularly disgruntled woman, and a fellow member of The Resistance even goes so far as to whisper, to her “You’d think we were rioting with all the police and royal guard present.” Lagertha nods in agreement, but alas, she doesn’t have much time to ponder, as the Captain appears upon the erected dais, searching for her. The members know her double agent status, and she proved her loyalty to the movement long ago. There is blood on her hands. Blood that was shed outside of her job, and that blood proved a point. It is safe for her to be seen walking between the two worlds, so Lagertha heads the Captain’s way and confirms that to her best knowledge, the area is safe for the Count. She is instructed to rejoin the ranks of his guards, though she is still in plain clothes. Every man is needed. So Lagertha moves back through the crowd, weaving between the people with an uncanny ease until she reaches the back of the Count’s guards, and climbs atop a wine barrel to see above the masses.

A fat, tall  man waddles up to the podium and unfolds a fancy letter, reading the words written there in a loud, clear voice. A hush falls, and he has their undivided attention. “By Royal Decree, I am authorized…” he begins, and by the end, you could feel the tension turn to unbridled excitement. Almost as soon as the herald finishes, squeals erupt as other women realize that this is their one and only chance to become a Queen. Lagertha rools her eyes at the shrill sound, but as she turns her gaze towards Count Odo, she can see his daughter’s eyes shining (as if she didn’t already have everything she could possibly want) with greed. Luckily, Lagertha doesn’t have much time to dwell on the meaning of this decree (and what it could possibly mean for her), as she has to finish out the work day, but as soon as she is dismissed, and she begins the slow walk home, the day’s events come drifting back into her mind.

Whether it is her feet that unconsciously carry her into a detour to the Administrative building, or it is a conscious decision, she doesn’t know. But somehow, the wild-haired woman finds herself before the marble building, then crossing the threshold and standing before an old man with flimsy looking, wire-rimmed glasses. “Excuse me, I can have application, please?” He looks up at her from beneath wild, white brows, seeing only the sweat stains on her shirt, and dirt on her face, and her lack of… appropriate clothing. “You?” he asks incredulously. “What hope could you ever have at winning? Are you even within the age limit” Lagertha’s lips pinch together in a tight line, her eyes smoldering in anger. She knows she looks far older than she is, but Lagertha has been training in combat since she was 13, and it has taken a toll on her body. The sun has weathered her face, and she’s never bothered to use lotion or makeup. The truth, however, is that she is only a few weeks from 24, and therefore safely within the age limit. “Yes. Is not your choice,” she spits out, thrusting a callused, rough hand forward to demand a piece of paper. The little old man laughs some more and waves her away, going right back to reading his book. It isn’t until one of Lagertha’s knives ends up in the middle of a page that that he looks back up, with a stunned and terrified look on his face. “Application,” Lagertha says firmly. “Now.”

She makes the man stay until she finishes the whole thing, then turns around and stalks back out into the night. She rarely second guesses her decisions, and this would not be one of them. You can’t win if you don’t fight.
-----

Two weeks later, they hear about the selected applicants, and it turns out that only Lagertha and Count Odo’s daughter, Celine, are wanted from their city. Everyone, from the nobility down to the peasants seem rather flabbergasted that Lagertha is one of the chosen few. Hell, even Lagertha herself is, though she spends the rest of the day irritably brushing off jokes from her fellow guards, until she finally snaps and threatens one of the more persistent taunters with a knife. They make sure to keep quiet after that. Count Odo, however, isn’t exactly pleased that his precious Celine will be competing with one of his own guards, and uses the excuse of that incident to ‘let her go.’ Without severance. Which means that she hasn’t nearly enough money to take care of… well, any preparations within the next couple of days.

Angry, frustrated, and feeling more than a little dejected, Lagertha wanders into a pub, to spend what little bit of coin she has. The five cents that the lowgrade wine cost won’t buy anything else, so she might as well spend it on drowning her sorrows. Four cups in (two were free), when the world is pleasantly numb and her head is buzzing, she closes her eyes for just a little nap and passes out. When she awakes with the rising of the sun, she finds herself in her bed, fully clothed, head pounding, and a hefty sack of coins at her side. She squints, rolling over to to look for some sort of explanation, but all she can find is an unsigned note, which says We believe in you. Disbelieving fingers open the pouch to find it filled almost half with gold, and half with silver - more than enough to outfit her with nicer clothes (though she’d be damned if she starts wearing dresses), decent good, and a swift ride to the Palace. She laughs, squealing like the younger girls she’d only recently mocked. Oh gods in heaven, it must have been the Resistance! It is a blessing, and also a subtle reminder of who she is, and the cause she believes in.

Lagertha spends the rest of her day taking care of loose ends and preparing herself for the journey; a visit to Jean and the tailore shoppe gets her some fine black leather pants and a silk blouse (decidedly more feminine than her usual shirt). She passes on the corset, saying only “I like being able to breathe” before moving on the subject of dresses. Jean insists that she should have one, just in case, and brings out a loose fitting frock that is wildly out of style. Although beautiful, in a cobalt blue, it seems to be made for a dancer than a ‘proper lady.’ The fabric flows about her thin frame, but with a few practice martial arts moves, and with the addition of a silver belt (in which she can hide a small knife), she finds it acceptable. She also buys a pair of new shoes; a finer pair of black flats, that would match the dress and leather pants. No heels. She wouldn’t know how to walk in those.

The next day dawns the same as before, except that it is wildly different from the others. Today is the day Lagertha sets out for the Palace. There is no one come to bid her farewell; no business save to pay for her room through the end of the month (just in case), and to lock it when she leaves. She has no family, and Philipe is working, like the rest of her friends. So here she goes, with only a small case of clothes and personal items, and lacking any sort of fanfare. No, that was saved for Celine. Preferring to save the rest of her money, she opts to buy a strong, if not terribly attractive horse from the blacksmith instead of splurging on a train ride. He, who has more than once mended her knives, hands the black stallion off while demanding the promise to bring it back if she should fail. If not, he says to think of it as a wedding gift. Lagertha chuckles and promises to take good care of Blackie. She strokes the stallion’s nose and he nudges her shoulder in what seems to be a show of goodwill. She smiles. He should do jusssst fine.

She hauls herself into the saddle, and settles her few belongings into sort of basket attached to the back side of the seat. With a click of her tongue, and a gentle prod of her brown booted feet, she urges Blackie forward, and they move down and out of the city while the day is still very young. Her selection had come with a map to the palace and the various ways to get there, so she pauses right outside the Downtown city gates to assess which way would be best. It seems to be only about a day’s travel north, and with the King’s Road not far away, she should make decent time. Lagertha folds her papers back up and tucks them into a purse that is hidden next to one of the knives in her boots. She would need that paper to get in, so best to keep it in a safe place.

The Road is about a mile away, and Lagertha feels the urge to let Blackie run. She pats him on the neck and then leans forward a bit, squeezing her her legs together. He lurches forward, and when he realizes that he has free rein, he leaps into a canter, carrying Lagertha quickly over the flat, green and gold fields, past several farms of wheat and corn and cows. Her hair is tied back in interlocking braids, and it flies behind her crouched form until it it is a windswept mess - but oh, how good it feels to have the wind in her face and a powerful beast between her legs. When they reach the Road, she slows Blackie back down to a walk as they merge into the northbound foot and carriage traffic. They make pretty darn good time, stopping every now and then to buy water and food from a streetside vendor, or to let Blackie rest and eat his own lunch. They travel all day, and it isn’t until the sun begins to paint beautiful streaks of pink and purple across the sky that the lights of the Palace loom before them.

When the pair do finally arrive at the Palace gaits, Lagertha cannot help but stare up at the massive building - it is easily three times the size of Count Odo’s house! It is white and long, and oh god - the number of rooms it must have! And yet, it is beautiful too - and far more stately than she could even have begun to imagine. This is so very far from the village where she was born. One of the guards at the gate steps forward, and from beneath his very tall, furry hat (what could it’s purpose be, except for decoration? He is only a target when he wears it), and calls out, “Halt! Who seeks entry to the Palace?” Lagertha hesitates, and then takes the letter of introduction out of her boot and answers in perfect Illean (though she does have an accent), “Lagertha Lothbrok, I am one of the chosen applicants.” Her voice does not break, despite the overwhelming feeling of awe inside her. Yes, this is indeed happening.

The guard takes her paper and looks it over, deciding that everything is in order. He makes a motion to some three men behind him, who open the gate to let her through, one of them even telling a boy to run and fetch Fiona, because another girl is here. Another man scuttles out of the shadows to help her from Blackie, while a third, in finer clothes, emerges from a small side door to take her belongings (without comment as to how little it seems to be). Of course, Lagertha doesn’t know this, so she moves to stop him, and he murmurs to her, “Do not fret, miss. Your belongings will be unpacked in your room for you. No one will take anything.”

At that moment, Fiona, an older, gray-haired woman in simple, but far more fashionable clothing descends from the main set of doors and flies down the marble steps to meet her. “Oh! You’re finally here, thank goodness. We were starting to worry that you weren’t going to make it in time. Come, come - oh -” she stops mid-sentence, hand flying to her mouth, as her shrewd eyes widen at the sight of the Lagertha. “Oh my.” Another long pause. “I’d heard you were foreign, but this is… this is entirely unexpected.” What? Had they mistaken her application with another’s? She’d clearly put all her combat skills and mercenary experience, her proficiency in three languages, on the application, as well as a detailed account of her near-death experience. What had this woman expected? “Well, this is me…”, she says awkwardly, throwing her arms wide into a shrug. “I’m Lagertha.” A frown crosses her face, and she straightens up, throwing her shoulders back, and planting her feet solidly shoulder's width apart. Let's try that again. "I am Lagertha Lothbrook, of Kattegat. I have been chosen from the applicants, and I do not intend to lose."

Even if the 'competition' is full of curtseying and tea etiquette. She wouldn't go down without a fight.

“Well." Fiona's brown eyes look her up and down again."It seems everything just got a lot more interesting… I’m Fiona, the head housekeeper here, and temporary escort of the applicants.” Fiona says, as she finally offers a hand to the wild-haired young foreigner. A sly smile creeps across the woman’s face, pulling at the crow’s feet around her eyes. “Come on, we’ll have a maid draw you a bath, and have some supper sent to your room. This way.” Fiona turns on her heels and marches back into the massive block of a home, leaving Lagertha to quickly hurry after her.

She can feel their bold stares as she follows at Fiona’s heels. Even if the staff were not staring, she might feel out of place. The entry hall left her mouth agape, and as the turned down a hall, she noted that it was cushioned in bright red velvet, and lights keep them bright and merry. The whole places shines, whether it is from the brilliant gold mirroirs that line the walls, or the doorknobs, or the shiny, clean faces of the employees. The maids and butlers turn their heads to follow their progress down the halls (so many turns, she’s sure she’ll never find her way back without a guide). They don’t cross but one or two of the nobility who are lucky enough to have chambers here, but when they do, they seem to throw themselves against the wall and comment rudely about the smell of horses and shit that have suddenly assaulted their delicate sensibilities. Lagertha only looks straight, or at the back of Fiona’s head, giving her back a make believe iron rod, and taking comfort in the fact that she could probably kill them in 30 seconds. Ten, if she can get to one of her knives. It is a small consolation, but it is enough to make her smile on the inside. That, and remember to store some knowledge for later - for The Resistance.

They ascend a staircase, and all the while Fiona has been silence, save to point out something notable every now and then. The sound of girls voices travel down, and it is obvious they’ve come to the wing - or area - that houses the applicants. Fiona’s head appears first, and they greet her enthusiastically, as if she were an old friend. Lagertha appears immediately after, and one girl squeaks in surprise, while the others fall silent. She gazes calmly (though her insides are tumbling around like a boiling sea) at the pretty girls, all of whom seem to be wearing beautiful dresses, with their hair curled or twisted up. She is painfully aware of her rat's nest of a hair, and her man's clothes. They all seem to be younger than she is - though that may just be her skewed perception. The girls fall to the side, hushed whispers reaching her ear after she passes. However, like the trained warrior that she is, she holds her head high and continues to follow Fiona to the end of the hall, where the last room awaits a visitor.

“Thank you, Fiona,” she says as she steps into the richly decorated room. “There should be a tub of hot water behind that screen,” the older woman points out, “and I’ll have the kitchen send leftovers, since you missed dinner with the girls.” Lagertha turns around and forces herself to smile, and nod. It must not have been as successful as she’d wanted, because something in it makes the housekeeper soften a bit. “Don’t worry about them, you’re just… exotic and perhaps even scary to a couple of them. Now get a good night’s sleep and don’t let them get your head, you have a big day tomorrow.” Lagertha nods, saying simply, “Of course. I appreciate your kindness.” Fiona dips her head in return and steps backwards, out of the room, pulling the doors shut with her.

Lagertha is alone again, and she allows her gaze to travel across the sumptuous chambers, deciding to explore before taking a bath, even if it means the water will be tepid instead of hot. The closet it made of polished mahogany, and whens she opens it, she finds her few sets of clothing already hanging, as promised. The rest of the items remain in her satchel, at the bottom of the boudoir. She turns to the bed, and it is so much larger than the one she has in her little attic room. Four posters, a canopy, and covered in a silk brocade in a beautiful sky blue and cream pattern. The pillows seem as light as air, and when she falls backwards onto the bed, for a moment she thinks she never wants to leave. But the bath is waiting, and her stomach growls again, and oh - she is so very tired.

Lagertha strips and sinks into the warm water, sighing in relief as it starts to soothe her aching quads and glutes. The silence in here, and the echoes of the girl’s excited, high-pitched chatter outside remind her that she is alone, again. But then it seems that she has always been alone, from the moments her parents died, to the moment that she decided to come to Illea, to this morning, when she had no one to bid farewell to. The is not like these girls, who may or may not come from wealthy families, or even those who come from poor ones - she imagines they still have families. Lagertha has nothing, and that makes her all the more dangerous. Who else can risk it all, who else has nothing to lose? Ah, but the water is cold now, and as she steps out of the wooden tub, the smell of food hits her - and then it is only a matter of short time before she stuffs her face and passes out - to a hopefully dreamless sleep.

Lagertha
Warrior Queen of the Amazons