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rainbowfic2013-05-29 02:47 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2013-05-29 02:47 pm
Acanthus #16, Peacock #13, Transparent #5
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Acanthus #16 (belt), Peacock #13 (strut), Transparent #5 (blown away)
Styles/Supplies: Seed Beads
Word Count: 1,335
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Andran gets attacked.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
The port was busy that afternoon, ships unloading at every dock while landside teemed with traders and groups out for a stroll. Kids and dogs chased each other over and around the piers, merchants and sailors shooing them away when they got too underfoot. A cool, salty breeze blew constantly from out over the water, making the sunny, cloudless day a bearable, even comfortable, one. The sky’s reflection in the ripply waters turned the bay a deep blue.
Andran fidh Shald, the korenast of Fyonth, usually avoided the port. Even growing up near the sea he had never liked the smell of fish, and as fish was Fyonth’s major export, the port almost always smelled strongly of it. His father often said he had inherited the sensibilities of his mother, formerly an alsatmar from the Setten forests. He might have taken after his father, with the typical Fyonthi dark hair and golden skin, but he was not a loving son of the sea.
That particular day, though, he had been urged to take a wander down to the bay, and even he, with his sensitive nose always searching for the taint of the sea, had to admit the breeze was doing its best to keep away the worst of the smell.
He was alone, save for his horse and the constant presence of the two guards his father insisted follow him everywhere. This was new; not two years ago Andran had been allowed to walk the city without accompaniment, but times were changing.
According to his father, anyway.
“Korenast!” called a mocking voice only a moment after Andran’s horse had touched hoof to the cobbled lane that ran the length of the port. “Or shall I call you Breyasen?”
Andran winced. He didn’t need to see the speaker’s face to know who it was. Still, it came out of the crowd, a dark, pinched visage above robes of noble blue--far too hot for this time of year--astride a pure-white gelding that was drawing more than a few covetous glances from the rest of the public.
“Cousin,” said Andran, nodding his head. One should show respect to family members, even those whose status was lower than one’s own. Even ones who cloaked their bitterness and jealousy in increasingly cruel taunts.
Seld fidh Cono was indeed a cousin, though a distant one: Andran’s father’s great-aunt’s youngest child, who was spoiled far beyond the means of his House and who clung desperately to his thin link with Andran’s own House. He coaxed his horse right alongside Andran’s far less showy brown mare, his grin showing too much teeth to be merely pleasant. “It’s not every day we see the Breyasen out among us commoners.” He put one hand to the breast of his ridiculous robe as if he was overcome.
“Please do not refer to me as that,” said Andran quietly. It wasn’t a secret that he was betrothed to the heir to the Artesian throne--indeed, his father had announced it far and wide the day it had happened, five years ago--but he preferred not to make a constant reminder of it when he was out in public.
“That’s right,” said Seld, his voice light enough to almost hide the sneer. “Not the Breyasen until you’re married, are you? Still, not long to wait now. Six months?”
“Yes,” said Andran through gritted teeth. Another reminder he could do without. He had never even met his bride-to-be, and wouldn’t until he and his father made the trip to Untoreld in a month’s time.
“Of course, much could happen in six months,” said Seld.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Andran didn’t fear his cousin, but he was suddenly glad his father had insisted on the guards.
Seld shrugged. “These are dangerous times, cousin, and the Brey has his enemies. He and his daughters are well-protected, of course. Perhaps the son-to-be should take more precautions?” He eyed the two guards, who were keeping a surreptitious distance.
Andran was in no mood for Seld’s games. “Aren’t you rather hot in that robe, cousin? It hardly seems appropriate for an afternoon at the docks.”
Seld clenched his jaw, but whatever rejoinder he might have come up with Andran never knew, because that was when he felt it: fingers groping at his belt, and the coin pouch tied to it.
“Hey!” he said, looking down into the face of a girl who, despite her height, could be no older than thirteen. Her face was dirty, her black hair unwashed and tangled, and Andran barely caught a glimpse of brilliant blue eyes before her back was turned to him and she was running away into the crowd, the soles of her bare feet leaving no mark upon the cobbles.
“Shall I chase her--” Seld began, but cut off as some force drove him sideways, all the way off his saddle. His horse stamped in panic, and the man just barely got away from the hooves before they came down on his head. Around them, people were starting to whisper in startled voices.
Andran slid from his own saddle to check on Seld, and that was when something hit him hard in the stomach, driving all the air from his chest and leaving him on his knees, gasping. Another blow, and he was on his side, pain blooming through his chest. Through watering eyes he could see his horse shying away, a crowd gathering around him, his father’s guards trying to shove their way through.
Of his attacker he could see nothing.
Another blow, this time to the head. Andran had not carried a proper sword with him for this excursion, but his hands fumbled for the small dagger hidden in his boot. Something yanked his hand down, flat to the cobblestones, and stomped on it.
It wasn’t possible. Even through his pain Andran could see there was no one there. No person had forced his hand down, no boots had broken his fingers. But the pain in his hand told a different story. Which could only mean one thing--
But they had all been chased from the city. That, or killed. How could they have gotten back in, and how could they be so brazen as to attack the korenast in broad daylight?
Seld had come to the same conclusion it seemed, because his panicked voice rang out, “Jasmara!”
The crowd drew back. Its whispers turned horrified and it immediately thinned as people suddenly remembered they had more important places to be. The guards reached him and one knelt while the other took up position over Andran’s body, his eyes scanning the dispersing crowd, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
If it was Jasmara the sword would do no good, and Andran waited for another attack to come. It didn’t.
“My lord, are you all right?” said the second guard.
“I’m fine,” Andran wheezed, but he wasn’t. He could tell just by looking that at least two of his fingers were broken, but he barely felt it, the pain in his chest overwhelming all else. He took another shuddering breath. “No. I think I may need help standing.”
“My lord,” said the first guard, turning to him now that the immediate threat seemed to have passed. “Did you see who attacked you?”
“I didn’t,” said Andran. “Please, see to Seld.”
But Seld had come off better in the attack. He was already on his feet, looking down at Andran with a mixture of pity and scorn. “You see what I mean? Your guards are useless. The Brey’s enemies are not armed with swords and arrows, Andran. Not anymore.”
“Then you do something useful and fetch help,” Andran gasped. It pained him to even breathe, much less talk, but it was worth it to see Seld’s jaw twitch.
“The korenast gave you an order,” said one of the guards. “I suggest you obey it.”
Seld sniffed and swung back onto his horse. “Yes, my lord,” he said, before leading it away.
kay_brookeStory: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Acanthus #16 (belt), Peacock #13 (strut), Transparent #5 (blown away)
Styles/Supplies: Seed Beads
Word Count: 1,335
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Andran gets attacked.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
The port was busy that afternoon, ships unloading at every dock while landside teemed with traders and groups out for a stroll. Kids and dogs chased each other over and around the piers, merchants and sailors shooing them away when they got too underfoot. A cool, salty breeze blew constantly from out over the water, making the sunny, cloudless day a bearable, even comfortable, one. The sky’s reflection in the ripply waters turned the bay a deep blue.
Andran fidh Shald, the korenast of Fyonth, usually avoided the port. Even growing up near the sea he had never liked the smell of fish, and as fish was Fyonth’s major export, the port almost always smelled strongly of it. His father often said he had inherited the sensibilities of his mother, formerly an alsatmar from the Setten forests. He might have taken after his father, with the typical Fyonthi dark hair and golden skin, but he was not a loving son of the sea.
That particular day, though, he had been urged to take a wander down to the bay, and even he, with his sensitive nose always searching for the taint of the sea, had to admit the breeze was doing its best to keep away the worst of the smell.
He was alone, save for his horse and the constant presence of the two guards his father insisted follow him everywhere. This was new; not two years ago Andran had been allowed to walk the city without accompaniment, but times were changing.
According to his father, anyway.
“Korenast!” called a mocking voice only a moment after Andran’s horse had touched hoof to the cobbled lane that ran the length of the port. “Or shall I call you Breyasen?”
Andran winced. He didn’t need to see the speaker’s face to know who it was. Still, it came out of the crowd, a dark, pinched visage above robes of noble blue--far too hot for this time of year--astride a pure-white gelding that was drawing more than a few covetous glances from the rest of the public.
“Cousin,” said Andran, nodding his head. One should show respect to family members, even those whose status was lower than one’s own. Even ones who cloaked their bitterness and jealousy in increasingly cruel taunts.
Seld fidh Cono was indeed a cousin, though a distant one: Andran’s father’s great-aunt’s youngest child, who was spoiled far beyond the means of his House and who clung desperately to his thin link with Andran’s own House. He coaxed his horse right alongside Andran’s far less showy brown mare, his grin showing too much teeth to be merely pleasant. “It’s not every day we see the Breyasen out among us commoners.” He put one hand to the breast of his ridiculous robe as if he was overcome.
“Please do not refer to me as that,” said Andran quietly. It wasn’t a secret that he was betrothed to the heir to the Artesian throne--indeed, his father had announced it far and wide the day it had happened, five years ago--but he preferred not to make a constant reminder of it when he was out in public.
“That’s right,” said Seld, his voice light enough to almost hide the sneer. “Not the Breyasen until you’re married, are you? Still, not long to wait now. Six months?”
“Yes,” said Andran through gritted teeth. Another reminder he could do without. He had never even met his bride-to-be, and wouldn’t until he and his father made the trip to Untoreld in a month’s time.
“Of course, much could happen in six months,” said Seld.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Andran didn’t fear his cousin, but he was suddenly glad his father had insisted on the guards.
Seld shrugged. “These are dangerous times, cousin, and the Brey has his enemies. He and his daughters are well-protected, of course. Perhaps the son-to-be should take more precautions?” He eyed the two guards, who were keeping a surreptitious distance.
Andran was in no mood for Seld’s games. “Aren’t you rather hot in that robe, cousin? It hardly seems appropriate for an afternoon at the docks.”
Seld clenched his jaw, but whatever rejoinder he might have come up with Andran never knew, because that was when he felt it: fingers groping at his belt, and the coin pouch tied to it.
“Hey!” he said, looking down into the face of a girl who, despite her height, could be no older than thirteen. Her face was dirty, her black hair unwashed and tangled, and Andran barely caught a glimpse of brilliant blue eyes before her back was turned to him and she was running away into the crowd, the soles of her bare feet leaving no mark upon the cobbles.
“Shall I chase her--” Seld began, but cut off as some force drove him sideways, all the way off his saddle. His horse stamped in panic, and the man just barely got away from the hooves before they came down on his head. Around them, people were starting to whisper in startled voices.
Andran slid from his own saddle to check on Seld, and that was when something hit him hard in the stomach, driving all the air from his chest and leaving him on his knees, gasping. Another blow, and he was on his side, pain blooming through his chest. Through watering eyes he could see his horse shying away, a crowd gathering around him, his father’s guards trying to shove their way through.
Of his attacker he could see nothing.
Another blow, this time to the head. Andran had not carried a proper sword with him for this excursion, but his hands fumbled for the small dagger hidden in his boot. Something yanked his hand down, flat to the cobblestones, and stomped on it.
It wasn’t possible. Even through his pain Andran could see there was no one there. No person had forced his hand down, no boots had broken his fingers. But the pain in his hand told a different story. Which could only mean one thing--
But they had all been chased from the city. That, or killed. How could they have gotten back in, and how could they be so brazen as to attack the korenast in broad daylight?
Seld had come to the same conclusion it seemed, because his panicked voice rang out, “Jasmara!”
The crowd drew back. Its whispers turned horrified and it immediately thinned as people suddenly remembered they had more important places to be. The guards reached him and one knelt while the other took up position over Andran’s body, his eyes scanning the dispersing crowd, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
If it was Jasmara the sword would do no good, and Andran waited for another attack to come. It didn’t.
“My lord, are you all right?” said the second guard.
“I’m fine,” Andran wheezed, but he wasn’t. He could tell just by looking that at least two of his fingers were broken, but he barely felt it, the pain in his chest overwhelming all else. He took another shuddering breath. “No. I think I may need help standing.”
“My lord,” said the first guard, turning to him now that the immediate threat seemed to have passed. “Did you see who attacked you?”
“I didn’t,” said Andran. “Please, see to Seld.”
But Seld had come off better in the attack. He was already on his feet, looking down at Andran with a mixture of pity and scorn. “You see what I mean? Your guards are useless. The Brey’s enemies are not armed with swords and arrows, Andran. Not anymore.”
“Then you do something useful and fetch help,” Andran gasped. It pained him to even breathe, much less talk, but it was worth it to see Seld’s jaw twitch.
“The korenast gave you an order,” said one of the guards. “I suggest you obey it.”
Seld sniffed and swung back onto his horse. “Yes, my lord,” he said, before leading it away.
no subject
Seeing this makes me more impressed that he's able to try and make his marriage work for so long, because even with the political alliance, it just seems way too unpleasant.
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Thanks for reading!
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no subject
Thanks for reading!
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no subject
Thanks for reading!