Az'rim and Je'retiel
If any of you are not familiar with [Duredhel] Realms of Lemire, then I suggest taking a looksy at http://realmsoflemire.wikispaces.com/IV.2%29+Dah%27kin in particular, as well as many of the other pages on that wiki.
This is a story involving the Dah'kin. Hence the link. All characters belong to me aside from Je'retiel, who belongs to [Ms. Steel].
“Let one of them do it!” Az'rim protested, her porcelain skin blossoming with pink indignation as she threw her arm out in the direction of the slaves' quarters.
Her father, who was rarely to be seen lurking about the modest house, narrowed his eyes into slits of silver in a glaring reprimand. His militant demeanour was product of fifteen years dogged allegiance to the Doomsday Guild, climbing as far up the ladder as he could, clawing his way with the determination of a man with no choice left him. Even after all his years of dedication he was still not a commander, nor a captain, but a reliable soldier he was, and accepting backtalk was out of the question.
Steering forward, his hand darted out for a brief but powerful slap to remind his 14-year-old daughter where her place was. The rough calluses on his hand, forged from years of swordplay, scraped against the teenage Dah'kin's smooth cheek, leaving a red mark that deepened after he replaced his hand on his belt.
“It is not your place to order slaves or disobey me,” he reminded harshly, looking down at his daughter as she raised her hand to her stinging cheek.
Having earned her fair share of knocks, Az'rim's face set in a learned way to protect against displaying hurt, surprise, or anger. She knew all too well that the first slap was a warning.
“Make his supper. Your mother and I have an important event and will be out late.”
He waited stock still for a confirmation that she had heard and understood his command. Az'rim, however, turned from him swiftly, putting her back to him as she bent to retrieve the skillet from the lower shelf. This silent defiance was not missed by the Doomsday soldier and his fist clenched slowly as he patiently, generously gave her a moment to reconsider her insolence.
Alas, Az'rim did no such thing and carried on with her petulance. She stepped silently across the cave floor to lay down the heavy skillet next to the fireplace, the ironware falling with more force, as if she had dared to throw it even with her father present and watching.
Allowing enough of the girl's unwarranted superiority to flourish, the Dah'kin soldier stepped forward and seized a handful of his daughter's silvery hair, tugging forcefully at the delicate hairs on her nape. He bent her neck back by pulling mercilessly, forcing her to look at his stoic face.
“I did not hear you. You must have said 'yes father' while you were turning...”
Az'rim winced, her face drawing into a tight scrunch as he manipulated the skin on her head with his fist full of hair. She reached back and gripped his hand with both of hers as searing pain shot through her tender scalp.
“Yes, father!” she parroted quickly in a rare moment of obedience. The blinding agony in her head trumped her desire to rebel, dousing her young flame with flooding force. Her fingers dug into his fist, eyes clenched to try and block the sting.
Satisfied, her father relaxed his hand and let it fall through her silken tresses like a white comb.
Az'rim righted herself from the arch her father's rough treatment had forced her back into, pulling her chin towards her chest to negate the throb. In the corners of her eyes welled small, salty tears that she swore were due to the smarting pain and
not the embarrassment of being humiliated on top of being forced to act as a scullery maid for her damned little brother.
“You would do well to remember your place, Az'rim,” her father commented sternly, letting his fine, killing hands rest on his black leather belt, favoring the left side where his enchanted sword ordinarily hung.
The daughter's shoulders tensed from the calm scolding but she kept her tongue from wagging as the prickle in her scalp leisurely faded. Gingerly lowering herself to the floor, she bent low to blow on the small coal that was still alive in the fireplace. Golden sparks flew about in a mad swirl, causing her black eyes to wince until all she could see were dancing fireflies behind closed lids.
She reached over and grabbed a bundle of kindling from beside the fireplace and arranged it piece by piece into a triangle over the glowing coals.
“You are aware that your
decision has left us with little choice for promotion,” her father began, speaking with eerie calm about a situation so dire.
Standing from the floor and painstakingly wiping her black
TUNIC? free of filth and soot from the hearth. She nodded once in recognition to avoid any further punishment and fanned the small flames as they began to take her triangular tower of kindling, grateful for any mundane task that could keep her fists from balling up and revealing her hand. She knew
exactly what was coming; her father wouldn't have bothered to come speak to her unless he had something worthwhile to say.
It was simple: another lecture about her role in the family was awaiting her, another stretched encounter between parent and child to help her understand just what a disservice she had done the entire family name by refusing the Spire Church to lurk instead in the dark tunnels of the Under Roads.
Her father took a few steps as if pacing, though his movements were so controlled and calculated that they appeared purposeful. Az'rim knew better. He was formulating his thoughts.
Finally, he spoke.
“There is a family in need of a retainer further in town. A large famile with greater influence than ours,” his eyes skipped to hers, words hanging in midair. He knew his daughter would glean the meaning without further explanation. Unlike his wife, he did not assume her to be dim-witted. Rather, his disappointment stemmed from the shameless squandering of her potential.
Az'rim held his gaze, wary of the information that was about to follow. Her arms folded across her chest as she walked over to the pantry and retrieved a neat black case that she placed on the table, revealing rich, yellow butter.
“What, they need a trophy to parade around? A stable hand? A
scullery maid?” Her words bit like frost, a clear indication that she disapproved of the very notion. She glared from beneath her brows with a dark force that emanated from deep within.
Her father, accustomed to the horrors of war and slaughter of both man and monster, was untouched by his teenage child's insolence. His cold, emotionless face bit back, demonstrating greater power of will than Az'rim could ever hope to achieve. His rigid, soldier's posture did not waver once, nor his cheeks darken with anger at her indignant attitude.
“You should be flattered, you have been requested specifically by the youngest son of their house.
He considers you a beauty,” he informed, making sure to catch her eyes as he said the last bit. “You would be expected to accompany him to all events. Since he is rapidly climbing rank and gaining favor amongst the Church, if you play your hand carefully there could be a profitable marriage in your future.”
“A trophy, then,” she surmised as she turned to place the pan on top of the coals her tower of twigs had become. “It sounds suspicious,” she said, folding her arms and turning to look at her father with a scrutinizing eye. “What would a necromancer want with a
lowly hunter such as myself? Surely he would better fare with a priestess.”
The man let out a short breath. “The son suffered an accident a few months ago,” he answered dutifully. “His face has never been the same.”
Drawing her head back in disgust, Az'rim made a face.
“So he is an aberration? Lucky me to be considered such a beauty,” she snapped. She grabbed a wooden utensil and jabbed it into the black case of butter to scrape some off, then turning to fling it into the frying pan.
Her father cleared his throat, the sound like sandpaper scratching against metal.
“He wears a mask to conceal the disfigurement. He is secretive but well respected amongst the Church officials and has already found favor with many of the High Priestesses for his mastery of necromancy.” The soldier watched his daughter's reactions for any sign of compliance, the tightness of his jaw foretelling of a wariness with her unwillingness to see reason.
“Your path of choice does not matter to him. His parents have offered to arrange marriage with women suitable to his means as well as taking on several lovely retainers to satisfy him. He has turned them all down and insists that he wants neither marriage nor a mistress, but a single beautiful girl to be with him at all times while he is in public.” He took a step closer. “He wants
you to be that girl!” His eyes flared, a sign that negotiation was not to be tolerated.
Standing at full attention, he bore himself down over Az'rim, hovering by several inches.
“This is an opportunity to live a lavish lifestyle.”
Az'rim, effectively wooed by his deceptively calm behavior, planted her feet and prepared her volley.
“And how will that improve the family name? Will the Esdras vermin be harmed if I am on the arm of some deformed necromancer? Are
they interested in – ”
“This is not a discussion!”
The echo shook violently through the cave walls, rising over the sizzle of butter. She froze under the menacing presence of her father as he began to display but a sliver of the power he wielded daily to put true monsters to rest and bring dark revenge upon the enemies of the Spire. He was close enough to her that she could see the slight differentiatio
n between his black iris and pupil, even as he cast a long shadow over her entire figure.
“You are meeting the family on Sunday. Their son has an important gala in a week. You are expected to be there – I will not accept your insolence in this matter.”
Az'rim sharpened her scowl on her father, her fair features darkening until her face could scarcely contain her rage. Lifting to show her teeth, her lip curled, eyes glittering with malice as her breath began to deepen.
“You're shipping me away.” The girl was nearly quivering with rage, as if she were trying to hold in a tempest inside of her but the thunder kept rattling her resolve. “I make an adult's decision to quit priestess training and now you figure you can discard me?”
Behind her, the butter began to burn, turning brown at the edges.
With hawklike precision, his arm darted out and snatched a handful of her clothing, dragging her towards him on the back of her toes as he practically lifted her into the air, reminding her again of his dominance.
“You ungrateful brat, I offer you a luxe life and you spit it in my face?” His voice was hushed, a malevolent whisper in the darkness as his eyes widened, the madness building. “This is for you, Az'rim,” he emphasized with a shake of his fist that sent her dangling body wobbling. “A wise girl would recognize that and be excited. For a huntress to be asked for specifically by a necromancer is a great accolade.”
For a moment they simply stared at one another, he with eyes full of wicked irritation and hers wide with fright. This was what made her father such a threat – he lured her into his web with careful and unnoticeable techniques only to strike when her feet finally landed on the X. Now trapped, Az'rim remained respectfully silent, allowing her father to feed from the fear he saw in her eyes.
At last, he released her, smoothing his hand then over the enchanted leatherwork of his pleated armor to maintain the sharp appearance of a soldier. As ever, his stoic propriety swept in to dissolve the remaining fragments of his explosive moments.
“I will escort you to their household this Sunday and that is final,” he concluded, gripping her with the severity of his frown to ensure she was heeding his word. Then, he severed the connection by blinking and walking away.
Just as he was almost to the tunnel that led to the small entrance vestibule, the Dah'kin father stopped and said over his shoulder, “Start over. You've burnt the butter.”
And then he disappeared into the darkness with the swish of his black cloak.
Az'rim glared as he left, ignoring the sharp smell of burning butter until she could no longer distinguish her father's back from the darkness of the tunnel around it. She turned then and threw a towel over the burning hot handle of the iron skillet, dragging it off the coals with a loud scrape to cool on the hearth stones.
So that was it, then. Her uses had demoted so far that all she was good for was a pawn to use as leverage and a slave to cook her 'darling brother's' meals.
While the pan cooled, forcing Az'rim to wait to clean it, she brooded.
Her opinion of herself was higher than that of her father's. To be traded to some deformed freak who couldn't even leave the house without a beautiful girl on his arm? Someone who was so hideous due to a magical error that his face was unfit to be seen even by those who sculpted dead flesh?! That was her opportunity to serve the Avreh name – to become some fool's doll, used to distract the masses from the fact that he was too mangled to be seen?
Huffily, she yanked a rag from the tabletop and dropped to wipe clean the bottom of the pan. Brown and black grease coated the fabric, staining it beyond repair as she swiped time and time again, her little hand whirling rapidly.
Flinging the oily cloth into a hamper for kitchen linens, Az'rim set up the skillet again on the coals and leaned broodingly against the wall next to the hearth. Lips pursed, she thought deeper, probing the depths of her situation until a single, finite conclusion was left.
The only answer that fit the bill was that she was being removed, like a stain or lame livestock. This alleged life of luxury had nothing to do with the sinister feud between the Avrehs and the Esdras. It was simply a ploy to sweep beneath the rug that which could most painlessly be forgotten.
Az'rim's eyes nearly splintered into icy shards when she realized that, to her family, she was the weakest link.
Flicking butter into the pan, the teenage girl let it coat the surface, growing good and hot before she threw in a slab of Fellram loin and a handful of mushrooms. Frothing in cold silence, she battled with the abrupt disconnect from her perception of herself and her family's. Surely her father was not so dense as to think that acting as an accessory to a disfigured mage was any less degrading than learning how to hunt.
Stirring her younger brother's supper, the Dah'kin's twisted mind began to wander, wondering just how they might all think of her after an arrow through the temple, shot from some unknown ledge in the darkness where no magic or sword could find her...
The resounding CRACK of flesh on flesh echoed throughout the stone kitchen thrice over. The light was dim from the flickering lanterns lining the center of the table, casting lazy shadows onto the black, cave walls that the modest house was made from.
Standing with an arm extended, the back red and swelling from the sting of the slap was a 14-year-old Dah'kin girl who looked too small to have delivered such a crippling blow. Her black eyes were devoid of life as well as color, and before her, clutching the side of his mouth, was her younger brother of 7. Yellow pus was oozing from beneath his fingertips, the product of a still-healing wound that his sister's slap had just reopened.
The cruel ice in the girl's eyes fractured as the soft sound of footsteps came from the hallway nearby, heralding the arrival of someone small and swift. The girl stepped forward and the younger brother flinched, but instead of striking, the girl draped an arm over his slim shoulder and peered down to investigate the seeping wound as her mother walked briskly into the kitchen.
"Az'rim," her mother's soulless voice barked, an irritated expression on what was otherwise a strikingly beautiful face. The young girl looked up and dug her needle-like fingers into her brother's shoulder, turning her head to casually inspect the damage done. The Dah'kin mother, having caught her reflection in a mirror on the wall, turned from her children and began to adjust the elegant drape of her silvery hair with fine, tapered fingertips.
"Your father and I are going out," she explained needlessly, ignoring the suspicious posture of her young injured son and the way his expressive eyes boiled with contempt as they volleyed from his sister to her back. When it seemed that, again, mother would offer no comfort, the young Dah'kin let his gaze fall dejectedly to the floor.
Az'rim glanced over, shooting a silent warning to her brother, Je'retiel, to keep silent about why there was pus leaking between his fingers.
"Another function," Az'rim stated, looking over the fine wares her small, beautiful mother had adorned herself with. Most impressive was the black ore necklace that clung to her throat and then spread in spiderweb patterns across her delicate, ivory clavicle, a single jeweled thread resting just above her cleavage. "Will the Esdras vermin be there?" the girl inquired, her young voice plunging suddenly into depravity as her gaze became eager and twisted. With mother looking so fair, that House's matriarch and patriarch would surely choke...
Her mother's head whipped over, sending a few strands of spidery silver hair askew as she stabbed her daughter with an enraged eye. Je'retiel flinched minutely, as if anticipating a slap to him or his elder sister, but Az'rim remained still, her wicked smirk intact.
"This house is free of all filth, including that name!" Venom dripped from her voice as she tucked her arms over her ample chest and stepped forward to gaze icily at her impudent daughter, grey eyes glittering with disappointment.
It was at this moment that the inattentive woman noticed the peculiar placement of her son's hand over the side of his mouth that had earlier that week been injured. Narrowing her eyes, she snatched at his wrist with the precision of a striking viper and pulled free his hand, wrenching his skinny frame forward a few paces and away from his sister's grasp. Je'retiel stumbled but was held upright by the strange strength in his mother's grip. he cocked his head to the side in a pitiful attempt to conceal his hideous disfigurement from his mother, even as the broken blisters dripped yellow fluid down his chin and onto the floor with little viscous splatters.
"Look at me, boy," his mother barked, seizing his chin between two icy fingers and drawing his head up to bear her scrutiny. Breathing sharply in abject humiliation, Je'retiel screwed shut his eyes from the calculating inspection of his mother, who gazed at the open wound with as much concern as she would offer a beggar on the streets.
Az'rim, who stood with silent, feigned innocence, remained in the background, looking on with absolute calm. The daily torture of her brother had crafter her into a mistress of deceit, her young, blossoming features woven into a convincing mask of guiltless concern.
With two unforgiving fingers digging into his chi, Je'retiel had no choice but to obey the vice-like grip of his mother's inhumanly strong fingers as she turned his head towards the lamplight.
"How disgusting," she stated severely, disappointment redolent in her black tone. "How did you reopen it?" she demanded to know, her words becoming increasingly curt and angry. She bore a heavy, punishing look down on her young son, hovering over him a few inches like a beautiful, white vulture. "Do you KNOW how expensive white potions are? Explain yourself!" she hissed, releasing his chin with such force that Je'retiel stumbled back.
Catching her brother with a slim arm, Az'rim pulled him towards her, appearing ever the comforter as she hugged him to her side. She looked over, her eyes soft as Je'retiel covered his mouth again as a single, frustrated tear trickled down to cleanse his stinging blisters.
"He is still weak, mother," she explained, glancing over to see him cry. "Speaking only irritates the blisters." Her hand, the same one that had struck him with the skillet and inflicted the first and then, just days later, smacked him to open the blisters again, began to run soothing circles on his back. At last, she looked back to their mother. "I came into the room shortly before you did. I think he ran into a table," she said at last, a tone of pity in her smooth soprano. She looked guilelessly to her harsh mother, allowing the woman to deduce whether she thought her disappointment of a daughter to be lying or not.
Deftly tucking a strand of hair behind her nocked ear, the mother turned her head from the ghastly sight of sibling affection before her, as if the very image turned her delicate stomach.
"You are too soft on him," she remarked snidely as a clear put down. She shifted her gaze to her son then and stepped forward, her long black dress skimming over the floor. "He is our only chance now that you've gone astray," the woman remarked cruelly, referencing her daughter's pathetic choice to boycott priestess training to become a lowly huntress.
With practiced care, Az'rim was able to keep herself from displaying any weakness to her mother that the biting comment was supposed to arouse. She simply squeezed Je'retiel closer to her, positively gleeful when he turned into her comfort to hide from the imposing terror of their mother.
"Don't worry, mother," Az'rim said, her black eyes bottomless with clever deception. "I'll clean him up. I wouldn't want you to dirty your hands when you've got that family to show up."
"Fine," the mother sighed with relief, as if she'd considered dressing her young son's injury, though both children could sense the feint. "Patch him up and keep him out of sight. There is still a chance he might not heal so hideously."
With a last, lingering glare to both of her children, the mother swept out of the kitchen and into the chambers beyond, leaving her son, the only chance for the struggling Avreh family, in the hands of the girl who had hurt him the most.
Stumble!