Ame -- Leaving Home
((This is what I've been working on. This is why there have been so few RP posts from me. This is what I abandoned normal internet activity for. I think I'm back now, and much more satisfied :3 ))
Brief breakdown: Ame is a Kir'ja, a race originally descended from dragons and elves. She has been involved in a lot of weird things and a lot of very bad things, and that's really all I can say without going into way too much detail. She is 34 although she looks much younger (in her mid-late 20s, probably), but for various reasons was actually born and originally lived over a thousand years ago, and the same for her son. If you really want to know, let me know and I'll gladly give you too much information.
WARNINGS: This is damn bloody. Ame is a violent person, and kills several others in this story. Not for the squeamish. Seriously. Gore.
Night. In the desert, a thousand could never encompass the number of the stars that lend their brilliance to the darkling sky; nor could a million, or any other number ever dreamed by mortal minds. The moon is waning ever down, whittled away to the faintest sliver of weakly gleaming bone white in a sea of stars. The illumination is faint in a round room high off the eastern wing of House Aurothorn, sliced and mangled by the heavy mesh of cold iron bars fitted to the sole window to make a ragged circle on the floor. The room is bare except for a half-empty plate with a few fitfully abandoned chunks of bread and a strip of dried meat resting rejected among the crumbs of a sober meal, and an earthenware jug of wine also discarded for the most part. And then there's her, of course.
Ame sits in the center of the irregular patch of starlight, facing the window and utterly still. Her back is straight, legs crossed, hands on her knees and eyes on the sky as she watches it with the fierce determination she lends to any activity. The washed out light glints in the sleek strands of her hair, leaching the vivid azure hue but lending a glitter to the abundant length for once left unbound. The unadorned white silk of her loose fitting clothes seems almost to glow, as do the chalky slashes of numerous scars picked out against tan skin. Sapphire eyes burn bright against the light, utterly cold and distant as the stars themselves. For once in her life, she is as still within as without; it's just too much to truly comprehend in a single night.
She is going to die.
And not die in some distant eventuality; not die in an abstract, far-flung battlefield future, not some sketchy subsequent event with at least a sword or two involved. No. As far as anyone is concerned, she is going to die in the alarmingly near future. At dawn, to be precise. There's no way to sleep knowing that, and she hasn't; not for two days. That's how long it's been--two days since the trial that was never a real trial but rather a formality that had to be acted out to make everything comfortably legal and remove any chance at blame from those who tried her. Like washing the blood off their hands and onto me, she's decided since. The trial was a joke. They were going to call her a traitor and call for her death no matter what. She was actually a little startled to learn that she still merited the choice to have an honorable death--a warrior's self-execution. That's what she's waiting for. For the guards to walk in and to give her the knife and watch to make sure she does it.
Funny, though; even though she's tried to end her strange and sordid life before, she finds that she really doesn't like the idea of dying just yet.
The sky is changing.
It shifts through as many colors as there are endless stars, the atmosphere finding every chord of hue and tone and gliding uncertainly to try on every last one before it can decide. She watches them all as she has for the last two sunrises--but this time there's a strange ringing in her ears as she realizes that if she can't do it... Can't make it.... It will be her last sunrise. No, wait; it will be the last sunrise of home no matter what. There's no going back. She hears, with the lucid sensitivity of the stillness around her, as the guards shift outside the door and shuffle uncomfortably in their armor as they wait just a little longer... She imagines that she can hear the distinct and individual creaks of leather straps and the shushed sounds of well-engineered plates of steel gliding, oiled, over one another. The sound of the door opening is impossibly loud, but she never flinches as it reaches sensitively pointed ears. She waits and listens as they shuffle into the room; two, four, six, and seven. More than that would seem paranoid, and her people are too proud to post extra sentries outside the door. The sound of parchment rustling crackles loudly in her ears as the last to enter unrolls a scroll--the formal charges and the exact details of her sentence.
"Wait. It's not quite dawn yet."
Her voice is a touch low for a woman's, and though it is slightly cracked from days of disuse it rolls even now with the self-assured ferocity of a tiger. They freeze, all around her, hands hovering nervously over sword hilts. She doesn't move--not even her gaze flickers from it's long-fixed point at the base of the window's opening.
Seven guards of a royal house, fully armored and equipped with what she knows to be the standard of House fighters--a short sword, a dagger, and a ceremonial pike each--against one woman, unarmed and dressed in plain silk with soft leather boots. This is the council's idea of mercy and kindness to her as a former member of the rank even above them--the opportunity to make a private and dignified end of it, the guards sent only to confirm the act and no one else in attendance. Their mistake, perhaps. No, not perhaps. She decides, the faintest flicker of emotion flashing briefly across the curve of her full lips. I will make certain it was their mistake even if it does kill me. But she holds herself back and holds it in, perhaps finding patience for the first time in her life and only in the face of the very real possibility of death. The sky seems at last to have stabilized in piercing blue to match the renewed color of her vivid hair. As soon as she realizes how still the color is, frozen for real, she flows to her feet in a single smooth motion that belies the stiffness of joints more or less motionless for days and the strange twist of what might be unfamiliar fear buried deep in her gut.
The guards jump, every last one; they are thoroughly startled by her sudden and flawlessly executed movement, clutching the ceremonial pikes in sweaty palms and glancing side to side as though to reassure themselves that yes, there are seven of them and only one of her, and yes, they are all armed and she is completely stripped of weapons or armor. That scarcely makes her a less frightening sight to their eyes. She might as well be a lioness among crudely-armed apes--better yet, a living legend straight out of their childhood tales and nightmares surrounded by plain soldiery. The guard with the parchment detailing the official state of things clears his throat boldly, only choking for a moment on the bitter flavor of barely-contained fear in the back of his throat.
"The condemned, formerly known by the name and title of Ameial Shil'indri Aurothorn, Lady of the House of Aurothorn and Keeper of the Vigils of Tinaralas, has been hereby and officially sentenced by the Council of the City of Vedra's Oasis and thereby approved by the High Council of the Three to...."
"Listen, this really isn't necessary. We all know exactly what's happening here and the official reasons behind it."
Ame turns in another liquid shift, rotating slow and smooth to face the man charged with the task of making sure everything is done properly. As she makes the transition from facing window to door, she takes careful note of the other guards on the way to him; where they stand, what they're watching, and just how afraid of her they are. Their fear is nearly a palpable thing; she knows it well and finds herself liking it, the familiarity of this frequent weapon, the taste of it on the air sweet as the smell of freedom. Upon facing him, she finds the man holding the parchment to be a broad-shouldered fellow standing directly in front of the door, his jaw set and his eyes frozen as he watches her come around to meet them with her own sapphire gaze. She sees him glance briefly at her hands as though expecting to find a live cobra in them, but he looks her straight in the face once he's seen that no such absurdity has come true, speaking in a trained calm overlaying his deep voice.
"I'm afraid, ma'am, that the procedure stipulates...."
"I don't care what any damn procedure has to say. Look, let's make this easy and fast. The point is that I'm supposed to die. Let's skip ahead to the part where you hand me some fancy-ass ceremonial knife and I slit my throat with it."
He pauses for a long moment as she stares him down, daring him to argue with her plan of action. She knows she's won when his eyes leave hers for half a second, glancing at the paper as an excuse to break the gaze. He clears his throat again, and rolls the parchment to replace it in the artfully crafted metal scroll case hanging from his heavy belt opposite his short sword.
"Let it be known that the condemned, as a final request, would like the reading of the charges and sentence omitted." he announces formally to the room--to everyone and to no one.
"Right. Just give me the damn thing."
She's probably being too hasty--showing too much eagerness might raise suspicion, but she's never been a patient person and the guards surrounding her are much too nervous themselves to give the matter any serious thought. If anything, they're relieved by the thought of making the whole affair a short one. The broad-shouldered man in front of the door hesitates slightly; he might suspect something amiss, but he's a good soldier and knows when to argue and when to do as he's been instructed. He tucks the weighty haft of his spear into the crook of his elbow to reach both hands to the ornamented silver sheath hanging from his belt behind the scroll case, unfastening the straps that hold it there to remove sheath and knife together. Ame finds herself examining his movement, catching the way he fumbles slightly with the fastenings and knowing that he may be tough, but he's a touch slow... Not as dexterous as some of his companions, perhaps, and certainly not as deft as she is. But he gets the sheathed knife free of his belt and extends it to her, and she has to admire him for not shaking as he hands the legendary nightmare of his people a weapon.
The scabbard is cool and heavy in her hands, and on closer inspection it turns out to be carved from pale ivory and encased in delicate silver filigree. The hilt that lands against the outer edge of her left hand is ivory as well, inlayed with silver wire to add texture to the grip and set with a polished round ruby at the pommel. The weight of it is reassuring in her hands, and just as she planned she nods solemnly as it presses from his grip to hers. She turns again, moving the other way to get a quick look at the guards she missed the first time around as she comes to face the window again. Slowly, deliberately, she slides the knife free of the sheath, no sudden movements to put them on edge. The blade gleams with a vivid edge and well-polished steel, slightly curved and about a foot long from pommel to point. She takes it with the reverent care of warrior, testing the balance and weight, both of which prove flawless, and sets the ivory scabbard on the windowsill. With an easy, comfortable grip on the hilt she runs her right thumb along the edge to try it; a narrow line of crimson barely felt springs up in its wake, a perfect razor slice. She nods thoughtfully, and fixes her eyes on the sky as she lifts the knife to her own throat.
Seconds pass.
Silence.
She can smell their fear, and it tastes sweet on the heavy air as she spins once more, viciously viper-quick, and lunges at the man by the door before any of them can comprehend what's happening. She knows he's the first one to take out--not only is he the leader, without whom the rest grow confused and frightened, but the dead weight of his corpse will block the door and they won't be able to get out and go for help until she's done. The knife slides perfectly where she aims it, diving into the slit of space between the steel gorget just under his helmet and the main portion of his breastplate. His face is pure shock as she snarls and drives the blade in to the hilt, piercing his heart and bringing angel death to him without even the pause of a breath.
Now it's real. A spray of crimson stains her white silk clothes and the very edge of her jaw, and she knows immediately that she has become a traitor to escape being executed as one. She knows better than to try to wrench the knife free, deep as it's driven and caught between the armor plates as his body sinks heavily to the floor, blocking the door just as she needed it to. Instead, she dives to pull the short sword from his belt with a sharp ring of steel scraping the edge of the sheath as it slides free, and with it firmly in her left hand she rolls to get her back to a wall.
The rest are coming to their senses, and those remaining six are lumbering uncertainly toward her where she crouches in the corner with their dead commander's sword in hand. It's not the kind of sword she's used to; what she wouldn't give for her own long, slender hand-and-a-half weapon, but she can make do with what's available. Favorite or not, the hilt fits comfortingly in her hand as she takes a defensive stance, eyes narrowed to burning blue slits as she watches them with a viciously keen understanding of their movements. They're just as startled and scared and confused as she expects, and she uses it to her advantage as the first gets within her range, pike leveled at her chest in hopes of taking her down without getting close enough to get hurt. With another fierce, rumbling growl she swings a wide arc to knock the haft aside with her blade and dodges smoothly around into the space it's vacated to close the distance between herself and her new target. A young man, she sees, alarmingly close and able to see his widened eyes and the helpless way his mouth opens in shock as she pulls her right hand up to slam a fist into his gut.
They may be wearing armor, but she's worn it before and it's not true field armor. A punch like that to armor meant for real battle would have broken her hand, but this is the kind built to be comfortable enough to wear in the desert heat while affording a minimal level of protection. The only actual plates cover the chest, back, throat, shoulders, and head, and the rest of the show uniform is a long-sleeved linen tunic with leather vambraces hidden under the cuffs and plain leggings tucked into lightweight leather boots. The impact of the blow to his stomach forces the young man to drop his spear from nerveless fingers, and as it clatters to the side she sweeps her sword back to dive up under the chest plate and slice deep. She can hear the sickening bubble of blood in a punctured lung, and knows he's done for before his lanky body hits the stone floor. Two down. Five left.
Crossing the small space of the room over his corpse, she re-positions herself in the opposite corner and spins to watch the rest. They're coming to their senses with each kill, and they're getting smarter and more organized. This time two charge at once, pikes abandoned for the fully edged swords like the one she holds between her body and them, and she ducks to let them hit the junction of the walls and stumble. She snatches a dagger from the belt of the woman on her right to put a blade in both hands so she can use their pause to re-orient to her advantage, bringing one weapon in low to the backs of each one's legs for a quick, savage slice across the hamstrings, putting both out of commission and into considerable pain.
By the time she gets the odds down to three against one, there's no hope left for the guards.
The fight is fast and brutal and hopeless for them; she has been called many things, but foremost among them Ame is a killer, and she is the best at what she does. By the time it's over, not so much as six full inches of white is left in the silk of her clothing, and as she catches her reflection in a polished breastplate she sees that the stains spatter across her face and arms as well. There's a bucket of more-or-less clean water behind the door, and she keeps it in mind to use for washing her face and hands before she leaves. First, though, she needs to salvage a complete uniform from the seven bodies scattered around her in a welter of gore. She tries hard not to see their faces as she strips them each of the cleanest items available, coldly calculating only each figure's size and shape in relation to her own in search of the best-fitting pieces. It's a stretch, but she manages to find at least one of each part of the standard uniform that is apparently clean--the assemblage isn't perfect, but it's convincing enough to get away with as long as she's not inspected too closely.
The leggings are a bit too tight and the one whole tunic she finds is rather overlarge for her lean, powerful form, but at least it looks decent enough at a glance. She washes her face and hands before handling the beige tunic, and by the time she's done she looks only slightly rough around the edges--and hopefully no more than any guard coming to the end of a long shift. She ties her vivid hair, a dead giveaway of a feature, back with a nondescript dark scarf torn from a spare pair of leggings, too badly torn on one side to wear. Checking her uniform and looted weaponry in a dull steel reflection, she pulls a slightly outsized helmet down a little farther than is standard to throw her face into shadows. She's already moved the large corpse blocking the entrance during her careful searching, and if she stays too much longer someone will come to check on what's taking so long.
With a last deep breath, she opens the door and walks out into the halls of what was once her own house.
It seems too easy, walking in plain sight at a normal pace along wide hallways with the vaulted ceilings she knows so well when the blood of her own is truly on her hands. But no one notices her and no one questions the movements of a guard walking straight and tall and proud through the house. A few approving nods meet her as she passes among servants and, once, a real guard coming alarmingly close. She returns each nod with a calm, friendly air she feels absolutely none of, and barely defeats the urge to race to her destination with the frenzy she's still caught up in. After too long, she finds herself in the correct place--a smaller corridor off in the eastern wing of the manor, the area reserved by tradition as the living quarters of the family. The living quarters that were once, at least in part, her own.
She finds the door she seeks, and knocks neatly on the heavy wooden frame. Almost too fast, her knock is answered by a strong hand tugging the door open, behind it a worried-looking face framed in dark blue and black hair chopped unfashionably short. The young man lets her in with a sigh of too much relief, letting out a deep breath long held in long anticipation. He looks rather a mess; dark smudges sink around his feverishly bright blue eyes and there's a narrow, pinched quality to his face and a distinctly unkempt trait in his tousled hair and untrimmed touch of a beard that hint at days spent sleepless and uncertain. She tries to lend him a brave laugh, but it comes out choked and wrong, and she sighs apologetically.
"Vaylon..." she murmurs gently, her low voice thrumming on the tense air. "It's good to see you."
"Jri ni soichm, jri ni keraku." he intones with a sad shake of his head that contrasts the slow smile growing on his lips. My mother, my torment.
"I try." she chuckles softly. "Is everything ready?"
"Of course." he crosses the crowded room, his private quarters dominated by his eclectic idea of a study, to lift a weighty set of large saddlebags from the back of a chair and bring them to her. She accepts the hefty luggage with a sad smile, hoisting it casually over her shoulder as he explains the contents. "One side's got a change of clothes for you, as well as an extra tunic and a pair of your boots. I didn't figure you'd find any that would fit."
"Got that right.... They're big enough to start rubbing by a half-day, I'd guess."
"Glad I thought of it, then. They're in there. The other side is basic provisions. You've got enough bread and dried meat to last at least four days, and water for five if you need it. No booze. You can get plastered once you get safe."
"Right. Got it. Thought you said this would only take about three days?"
"Should only be three. Hell, you could probably make it less. But just in case. And here--" he pulls a metal scroll case sickeningly reminiscent of the one carried by the man she cut down only minutes ago from his desk and passes it to her. "--are all your documents. Big one rolled on the outside is a map to get you there as fast and safe as possible, and it's a good map--I've gotten there and back on these directions four times now. Should be easy, and like I said, usually three days. Inside that are several letters that need to be handed to the appropriate people--they're all labeled with who needs to get them, and they explain everything as needed. Oh, and if anyone asks, tell them that as long as this goes off without a hitch I'll have the Alurane prototype ready for them in eight days as long as they come and get it."
"Perfect. You're.... well, not to be cliche, but a lifesaver. Vaylon.... Thank you. Truly."
"Of course. What else could I possibly do? But you need to get going. Once they find out you're gone, I don't think I'd give you more than a half-day's lead on the pursuit. I've had the stable hands saddle Morningstar for you, but indirectly--they don't know the order came from me, so don't mention me. Figured you could say you were on leave to visit family in the mountains. You can come up with why."
"Perfect. I'm sure you'll find a way to contact me if you need to. Jri jokime vli, jri ni afil."
I love you, my son.
The walk to the stable yard is simpler, somehow. Her gait is calm and easy as a guard's should be when taking leave for a family visit. She's already got her excuse ready when the stable keeper asks offhandedly where's she's headed as he calls for the horse in question, and it comes out without a slip.
"Oh, my brother's wife just had their first little boy. They live out in the mountains, and I've got special leave to go visit for a few days. Can't wait to see him."
"Well, that sounds like a nice time. Do congratulate the parents for everyone here, eh?"
"But of course. Thanks so much for having the horse ready--I want to get out there as soon as I can."
"No problem. Always glad to help our protectors, right? But surely it'll be hot, riding in all that?"
"Hot, but worth the look on the neighbor-kids' faces when they spot the uniform. They love it."
"Well, why not? Always good to see a fine soldier."
She throws the saddlebags over the blood bay's haunches herself, deftly strapping them in place even though her hands are starting to shake with revulsion at the idea of being respected for the post she killed to falsify. She swings up into the saddle without another word, tossing an offhand salute over her shoulder as she kicks her mount into motion across the packed earth. No one so much as gives her a second glance as she rides out the northern gate of the walled city.
Brief breakdown: Ame is a Kir'ja, a race originally descended from dragons and elves. She has been involved in a lot of weird things and a lot of very bad things, and that's really all I can say without going into way too much detail. She is 34 although she looks much younger (in her mid-late 20s, probably), but for various reasons was actually born and originally lived over a thousand years ago, and the same for her son. If you really want to know, let me know and I'll gladly give you too much information.
WARNINGS: This is damn bloody. Ame is a violent person, and kills several others in this story. Not for the squeamish. Seriously. Gore.
Night. In the desert, a thousand could never encompass the number of the stars that lend their brilliance to the darkling sky; nor could a million, or any other number ever dreamed by mortal minds. The moon is waning ever down, whittled away to the faintest sliver of weakly gleaming bone white in a sea of stars. The illumination is faint in a round room high off the eastern wing of House Aurothorn, sliced and mangled by the heavy mesh of cold iron bars fitted to the sole window to make a ragged circle on the floor. The room is bare except for a half-empty plate with a few fitfully abandoned chunks of bread and a strip of dried meat resting rejected among the crumbs of a sober meal, and an earthenware jug of wine also discarded for the most part. And then there's her, of course.
Ame sits in the center of the irregular patch of starlight, facing the window and utterly still. Her back is straight, legs crossed, hands on her knees and eyes on the sky as she watches it with the fierce determination she lends to any activity. The washed out light glints in the sleek strands of her hair, leaching the vivid azure hue but lending a glitter to the abundant length for once left unbound. The unadorned white silk of her loose fitting clothes seems almost to glow, as do the chalky slashes of numerous scars picked out against tan skin. Sapphire eyes burn bright against the light, utterly cold and distant as the stars themselves. For once in her life, she is as still within as without; it's just too much to truly comprehend in a single night.
She is going to die.
And not die in some distant eventuality; not die in an abstract, far-flung battlefield future, not some sketchy subsequent event with at least a sword or two involved. No. As far as anyone is concerned, she is going to die in the alarmingly near future. At dawn, to be precise. There's no way to sleep knowing that, and she hasn't; not for two days. That's how long it's been--two days since the trial that was never a real trial but rather a formality that had to be acted out to make everything comfortably legal and remove any chance at blame from those who tried her. Like washing the blood off their hands and onto me, she's decided since. The trial was a joke. They were going to call her a traitor and call for her death no matter what. She was actually a little startled to learn that she still merited the choice to have an honorable death--a warrior's self-execution. That's what she's waiting for. For the guards to walk in and to give her the knife and watch to make sure she does it.
Funny, though; even though she's tried to end her strange and sordid life before, she finds that she really doesn't like the idea of dying just yet.
The sky is changing.
It shifts through as many colors as there are endless stars, the atmosphere finding every chord of hue and tone and gliding uncertainly to try on every last one before it can decide. She watches them all as she has for the last two sunrises--but this time there's a strange ringing in her ears as she realizes that if she can't do it... Can't make it.... It will be her last sunrise. No, wait; it will be the last sunrise of home no matter what. There's no going back. She hears, with the lucid sensitivity of the stillness around her, as the guards shift outside the door and shuffle uncomfortably in their armor as they wait just a little longer... She imagines that she can hear the distinct and individual creaks of leather straps and the shushed sounds of well-engineered plates of steel gliding, oiled, over one another. The sound of the door opening is impossibly loud, but she never flinches as it reaches sensitively pointed ears. She waits and listens as they shuffle into the room; two, four, six, and seven. More than that would seem paranoid, and her people are too proud to post extra sentries outside the door. The sound of parchment rustling crackles loudly in her ears as the last to enter unrolls a scroll--the formal charges and the exact details of her sentence.
"Wait. It's not quite dawn yet."
Her voice is a touch low for a woman's, and though it is slightly cracked from days of disuse it rolls even now with the self-assured ferocity of a tiger. They freeze, all around her, hands hovering nervously over sword hilts. She doesn't move--not even her gaze flickers from it's long-fixed point at the base of the window's opening.
Seven guards of a royal house, fully armored and equipped with what she knows to be the standard of House fighters--a short sword, a dagger, and a ceremonial pike each--against one woman, unarmed and dressed in plain silk with soft leather boots. This is the council's idea of mercy and kindness to her as a former member of the rank even above them--the opportunity to make a private and dignified end of it, the guards sent only to confirm the act and no one else in attendance. Their mistake, perhaps. No, not perhaps. She decides, the faintest flicker of emotion flashing briefly across the curve of her full lips. I will make certain it was their mistake even if it does kill me. But she holds herself back and holds it in, perhaps finding patience for the first time in her life and only in the face of the very real possibility of death. The sky seems at last to have stabilized in piercing blue to match the renewed color of her vivid hair. As soon as she realizes how still the color is, frozen for real, she flows to her feet in a single smooth motion that belies the stiffness of joints more or less motionless for days and the strange twist of what might be unfamiliar fear buried deep in her gut.
The guards jump, every last one; they are thoroughly startled by her sudden and flawlessly executed movement, clutching the ceremonial pikes in sweaty palms and glancing side to side as though to reassure themselves that yes, there are seven of them and only one of her, and yes, they are all armed and she is completely stripped of weapons or armor. That scarcely makes her a less frightening sight to their eyes. She might as well be a lioness among crudely-armed apes--better yet, a living legend straight out of their childhood tales and nightmares surrounded by plain soldiery. The guard with the parchment detailing the official state of things clears his throat boldly, only choking for a moment on the bitter flavor of barely-contained fear in the back of his throat.
"The condemned, formerly known by the name and title of Ameial Shil'indri Aurothorn, Lady of the House of Aurothorn and Keeper of the Vigils of Tinaralas, has been hereby and officially sentenced by the Council of the City of Vedra's Oasis and thereby approved by the High Council of the Three to...."
"Listen, this really isn't necessary. We all know exactly what's happening here and the official reasons behind it."
Ame turns in another liquid shift, rotating slow and smooth to face the man charged with the task of making sure everything is done properly. As she makes the transition from facing window to door, she takes careful note of the other guards on the way to him; where they stand, what they're watching, and just how afraid of her they are. Their fear is nearly a palpable thing; she knows it well and finds herself liking it, the familiarity of this frequent weapon, the taste of it on the air sweet as the smell of freedom. Upon facing him, she finds the man holding the parchment to be a broad-shouldered fellow standing directly in front of the door, his jaw set and his eyes frozen as he watches her come around to meet them with her own sapphire gaze. She sees him glance briefly at her hands as though expecting to find a live cobra in them, but he looks her straight in the face once he's seen that no such absurdity has come true, speaking in a trained calm overlaying his deep voice.
"I'm afraid, ma'am, that the procedure stipulates...."
"I don't care what any damn procedure has to say. Look, let's make this easy and fast. The point is that I'm supposed to die. Let's skip ahead to the part where you hand me some fancy-ass ceremonial knife and I slit my throat with it."
He pauses for a long moment as she stares him down, daring him to argue with her plan of action. She knows she's won when his eyes leave hers for half a second, glancing at the paper as an excuse to break the gaze. He clears his throat again, and rolls the parchment to replace it in the artfully crafted metal scroll case hanging from his heavy belt opposite his short sword.
"Let it be known that the condemned, as a final request, would like the reading of the charges and sentence omitted." he announces formally to the room--to everyone and to no one.
"Right. Just give me the damn thing."
She's probably being too hasty--showing too much eagerness might raise suspicion, but she's never been a patient person and the guards surrounding her are much too nervous themselves to give the matter any serious thought. If anything, they're relieved by the thought of making the whole affair a short one. The broad-shouldered man in front of the door hesitates slightly; he might suspect something amiss, but he's a good soldier and knows when to argue and when to do as he's been instructed. He tucks the weighty haft of his spear into the crook of his elbow to reach both hands to the ornamented silver sheath hanging from his belt behind the scroll case, unfastening the straps that hold it there to remove sheath and knife together. Ame finds herself examining his movement, catching the way he fumbles slightly with the fastenings and knowing that he may be tough, but he's a touch slow... Not as dexterous as some of his companions, perhaps, and certainly not as deft as she is. But he gets the sheathed knife free of his belt and extends it to her, and she has to admire him for not shaking as he hands the legendary nightmare of his people a weapon.
The scabbard is cool and heavy in her hands, and on closer inspection it turns out to be carved from pale ivory and encased in delicate silver filigree. The hilt that lands against the outer edge of her left hand is ivory as well, inlayed with silver wire to add texture to the grip and set with a polished round ruby at the pommel. The weight of it is reassuring in her hands, and just as she planned she nods solemnly as it presses from his grip to hers. She turns again, moving the other way to get a quick look at the guards she missed the first time around as she comes to face the window again. Slowly, deliberately, she slides the knife free of the sheath, no sudden movements to put them on edge. The blade gleams with a vivid edge and well-polished steel, slightly curved and about a foot long from pommel to point. She takes it with the reverent care of warrior, testing the balance and weight, both of which prove flawless, and sets the ivory scabbard on the windowsill. With an easy, comfortable grip on the hilt she runs her right thumb along the edge to try it; a narrow line of crimson barely felt springs up in its wake, a perfect razor slice. She nods thoughtfully, and fixes her eyes on the sky as she lifts the knife to her own throat.
Seconds pass.
Silence.
She can smell their fear, and it tastes sweet on the heavy air as she spins once more, viciously viper-quick, and lunges at the man by the door before any of them can comprehend what's happening. She knows he's the first one to take out--not only is he the leader, without whom the rest grow confused and frightened, but the dead weight of his corpse will block the door and they won't be able to get out and go for help until she's done. The knife slides perfectly where she aims it, diving into the slit of space between the steel gorget just under his helmet and the main portion of his breastplate. His face is pure shock as she snarls and drives the blade in to the hilt, piercing his heart and bringing angel death to him without even the pause of a breath.
Now it's real. A spray of crimson stains her white silk clothes and the very edge of her jaw, and she knows immediately that she has become a traitor to escape being executed as one. She knows better than to try to wrench the knife free, deep as it's driven and caught between the armor plates as his body sinks heavily to the floor, blocking the door just as she needed it to. Instead, she dives to pull the short sword from his belt with a sharp ring of steel scraping the edge of the sheath as it slides free, and with it firmly in her left hand she rolls to get her back to a wall.
The rest are coming to their senses, and those remaining six are lumbering uncertainly toward her where she crouches in the corner with their dead commander's sword in hand. It's not the kind of sword she's used to; what she wouldn't give for her own long, slender hand-and-a-half weapon, but she can make do with what's available. Favorite or not, the hilt fits comfortingly in her hand as she takes a defensive stance, eyes narrowed to burning blue slits as she watches them with a viciously keen understanding of their movements. They're just as startled and scared and confused as she expects, and she uses it to her advantage as the first gets within her range, pike leveled at her chest in hopes of taking her down without getting close enough to get hurt. With another fierce, rumbling growl she swings a wide arc to knock the haft aside with her blade and dodges smoothly around into the space it's vacated to close the distance between herself and her new target. A young man, she sees, alarmingly close and able to see his widened eyes and the helpless way his mouth opens in shock as she pulls her right hand up to slam a fist into his gut.
They may be wearing armor, but she's worn it before and it's not true field armor. A punch like that to armor meant for real battle would have broken her hand, but this is the kind built to be comfortable enough to wear in the desert heat while affording a minimal level of protection. The only actual plates cover the chest, back, throat, shoulders, and head, and the rest of the show uniform is a long-sleeved linen tunic with leather vambraces hidden under the cuffs and plain leggings tucked into lightweight leather boots. The impact of the blow to his stomach forces the young man to drop his spear from nerveless fingers, and as it clatters to the side she sweeps her sword back to dive up under the chest plate and slice deep. She can hear the sickening bubble of blood in a punctured lung, and knows he's done for before his lanky body hits the stone floor. Two down. Five left.
Crossing the small space of the room over his corpse, she re-positions herself in the opposite corner and spins to watch the rest. They're coming to their senses with each kill, and they're getting smarter and more organized. This time two charge at once, pikes abandoned for the fully edged swords like the one she holds between her body and them, and she ducks to let them hit the junction of the walls and stumble. She snatches a dagger from the belt of the woman on her right to put a blade in both hands so she can use their pause to re-orient to her advantage, bringing one weapon in low to the backs of each one's legs for a quick, savage slice across the hamstrings, putting both out of commission and into considerable pain.
By the time she gets the odds down to three against one, there's no hope left for the guards.
The fight is fast and brutal and hopeless for them; she has been called many things, but foremost among them Ame is a killer, and she is the best at what she does. By the time it's over, not so much as six full inches of white is left in the silk of her clothing, and as she catches her reflection in a polished breastplate she sees that the stains spatter across her face and arms as well. There's a bucket of more-or-less clean water behind the door, and she keeps it in mind to use for washing her face and hands before she leaves. First, though, she needs to salvage a complete uniform from the seven bodies scattered around her in a welter of gore. She tries hard not to see their faces as she strips them each of the cleanest items available, coldly calculating only each figure's size and shape in relation to her own in search of the best-fitting pieces. It's a stretch, but she manages to find at least one of each part of the standard uniform that is apparently clean--the assemblage isn't perfect, but it's convincing enough to get away with as long as she's not inspected too closely.
The leggings are a bit too tight and the one whole tunic she finds is rather overlarge for her lean, powerful form, but at least it looks decent enough at a glance. She washes her face and hands before handling the beige tunic, and by the time she's done she looks only slightly rough around the edges--and hopefully no more than any guard coming to the end of a long shift. She ties her vivid hair, a dead giveaway of a feature, back with a nondescript dark scarf torn from a spare pair of leggings, too badly torn on one side to wear. Checking her uniform and looted weaponry in a dull steel reflection, she pulls a slightly outsized helmet down a little farther than is standard to throw her face into shadows. She's already moved the large corpse blocking the entrance during her careful searching, and if she stays too much longer someone will come to check on what's taking so long.
With a last deep breath, she opens the door and walks out into the halls of what was once her own house.
It seems too easy, walking in plain sight at a normal pace along wide hallways with the vaulted ceilings she knows so well when the blood of her own is truly on her hands. But no one notices her and no one questions the movements of a guard walking straight and tall and proud through the house. A few approving nods meet her as she passes among servants and, once, a real guard coming alarmingly close. She returns each nod with a calm, friendly air she feels absolutely none of, and barely defeats the urge to race to her destination with the frenzy she's still caught up in. After too long, she finds herself in the correct place--a smaller corridor off in the eastern wing of the manor, the area reserved by tradition as the living quarters of the family. The living quarters that were once, at least in part, her own.
She finds the door she seeks, and knocks neatly on the heavy wooden frame. Almost too fast, her knock is answered by a strong hand tugging the door open, behind it a worried-looking face framed in dark blue and black hair chopped unfashionably short. The young man lets her in with a sigh of too much relief, letting out a deep breath long held in long anticipation. He looks rather a mess; dark smudges sink around his feverishly bright blue eyes and there's a narrow, pinched quality to his face and a distinctly unkempt trait in his tousled hair and untrimmed touch of a beard that hint at days spent sleepless and uncertain. She tries to lend him a brave laugh, but it comes out choked and wrong, and she sighs apologetically.
"Vaylon..." she murmurs gently, her low voice thrumming on the tense air. "It's good to see you."
"Jri ni soichm, jri ni keraku." he intones with a sad shake of his head that contrasts the slow smile growing on his lips. My mother, my torment.
"I try." she chuckles softly. "Is everything ready?"
"Of course." he crosses the crowded room, his private quarters dominated by his eclectic idea of a study, to lift a weighty set of large saddlebags from the back of a chair and bring them to her. She accepts the hefty luggage with a sad smile, hoisting it casually over her shoulder as he explains the contents. "One side's got a change of clothes for you, as well as an extra tunic and a pair of your boots. I didn't figure you'd find any that would fit."
"Got that right.... They're big enough to start rubbing by a half-day, I'd guess."
"Glad I thought of it, then. They're in there. The other side is basic provisions. You've got enough bread and dried meat to last at least four days, and water for five if you need it. No booze. You can get plastered once you get safe."
"Right. Got it. Thought you said this would only take about three days?"
"Should only be three. Hell, you could probably make it less. But just in case. And here--" he pulls a metal scroll case sickeningly reminiscent of the one carried by the man she cut down only minutes ago from his desk and passes it to her. "--are all your documents. Big one rolled on the outside is a map to get you there as fast and safe as possible, and it's a good map--I've gotten there and back on these directions four times now. Should be easy, and like I said, usually three days. Inside that are several letters that need to be handed to the appropriate people--they're all labeled with who needs to get them, and they explain everything as needed. Oh, and if anyone asks, tell them that as long as this goes off without a hitch I'll have the Alurane prototype ready for them in eight days as long as they come and get it."
"Perfect. You're.... well, not to be cliche, but a lifesaver. Vaylon.... Thank you. Truly."
"Of course. What else could I possibly do? But you need to get going. Once they find out you're gone, I don't think I'd give you more than a half-day's lead on the pursuit. I've had the stable hands saddle Morningstar for you, but indirectly--they don't know the order came from me, so don't mention me. Figured you could say you were on leave to visit family in the mountains. You can come up with why."
"Perfect. I'm sure you'll find a way to contact me if you need to. Jri jokime vli, jri ni afil."
I love you, my son.
The walk to the stable yard is simpler, somehow. Her gait is calm and easy as a guard's should be when taking leave for a family visit. She's already got her excuse ready when the stable keeper asks offhandedly where's she's headed as he calls for the horse in question, and it comes out without a slip.
"Oh, my brother's wife just had their first little boy. They live out in the mountains, and I've got special leave to go visit for a few days. Can't wait to see him."
"Well, that sounds like a nice time. Do congratulate the parents for everyone here, eh?"
"But of course. Thanks so much for having the horse ready--I want to get out there as soon as I can."
"No problem. Always glad to help our protectors, right? But surely it'll be hot, riding in all that?"
"Hot, but worth the look on the neighbor-kids' faces when they spot the uniform. They love it."
"Well, why not? Always good to see a fine soldier."
She throws the saddlebags over the blood bay's haunches herself, deftly strapping them in place even though her hands are starting to shake with revulsion at the idea of being respected for the post she killed to falsify. She swings up into the saddle without another word, tossing an offhand salute over her shoulder as she kicks her mount into motion across the packed earth. No one so much as gives her a second glance as she rides out the northern gate of the walled city.