Continuing our story, as predicted, Rycardus arrives at night, or rather, early morning. The moon is a crescent shape amongst the celestial lights against the black canvassed background. It has no significant role in the search for an interesting character, merely confirming the workings of Aflana and the continent.
Their arrival startles me. Currently dreaming of a barbarian tribe in Triudal, near Nibris’ Domain. Somehow, their incursion into the north of the land will grow in leaps and bounds, and the Datasi (As they’re known.) will rule over a large swath of land. The southern kingdom will deploy its army … please forgive me, I digress into details that aren’t important—for now.
I reach for the lamp on my nightstand and twist the turn-knob switch twice and light interrupts the darkened room.
“Did we scare you?” said Reyna. “You seem a bit unsettled.”
“I prefer surprised,” I reply.
Her eyes see through darkness exceptionally.
“That’s not what your eyes say.”
Reyna is a cookshop worker who has sunk her claws into Rycardus. I say this both figuratively and literally. She speaks love into his ears and his strong physical desire for the exotic woman has him bound in emotional chains. He accepts her lies as the truth, which will lead to a confrontation, eventually.
I look directly at Rycardus, the tall, dark-haired man, heir to the Andairn throne in the land of Aflana. Princess Ingrid and Rycardus have an arranged marriage to consummate in a manner of a few short months to bolster an alliance between Aflana and Brüeland. He’s making it clear his choice is Reyna over doing what is right.
“Why do you insist on coming at night despite my request?” I say.
“Because we have the power, not you,” interrupts Reyna. “You created us, but we’ve taken what belongs to us.”
I keep my focus on Rycardus. “And I’ve asked you not to bring her with you.”
The growl is deep, inhuman. I do my best to ignore it.
“You’re regurgitating things my father says,” said Rycardus. “Now I know where he gets it.”
“C’mon Rycardus,” said Reyna, “there’s nothing left to say. He doesn’t understand our love.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I say. “I created this mess, and I’ll need to clean it up, much like a stableboy shovels shit.”
I glance at Reyna’s eyes, and they’ve gone a bright yellow. Her muscles twitch, and her hands larger.
This, I really don’t need. “Go—get out of here. I find neither of you to be superbly interesting.”
Another growl. Reyna rolls her neck, and it starts.
“Rycardus,” I insist, “Take her away. I’d rather not handle Reyna’s other side right now.”
The son of Rycharde Andairn, the possessor of the black sword named Heartstriker, Scourge of the Wolf, complies. Rycardus hastily grabs her hand and pulls her away.
But before they’re gone, I hurl a massive boulder, large enough to be used with a siege weapon, at Reyna. “Whenever it happens, your demise will be very painful.”
She turns and looks at me with fading yellow orbs wide as a great river and I deliver a line I gave to Calena. “This I have seen.”
Sleep is fitful until the sun prepares to rise, which means it’s time to get up, but I push the snooze button on my phone until Glasha appears. By our standards, Glasha is young, but in her world, she is a woman. She’s a warrior princess who has taken part in bloody battles and killed men. She possesses an unusual innocence, almost a sweetness.
The princess stands apart from most in Daupin. She’s a quarter orc, the daughter of a half-orc chieftain and a human slave girl. Glasha is tall with the strength of any man, but yet has maintained her beauty, a fact her father wants to use for his own place amongst human kings and rulers. Nevertheless, his pursuit is a story meant for another time and place.
With elf ears rising regally from her black hair, olive skin and a well curved body, she spends time with the tribe’s cimcier (seer) as a teenager looking to determine her future. It’s through one of these visits to the tall tree where the cimcier lives she speaks a prophetic word to Glasha. Focused on one of the prophetic verses, she becomes obsessed with a knight she exchanged glances with less than five years ago, an occasion she remembers vividly.
“Excuse me, Mr. Builteman,” said Glasha, “I hope I’m not disturbing you too much.”
I’m stunned by her politeness. We rarely speak, but she is sweeter than any pastry served for dessert. However, she has her battle axe, which hangs from her belt. Strange…like I said.
“No, not at all,” I say.
“My life is both interesting and worthy of attention,” said Glasha.
“It is interesting. But most interesting?”
“Yes. I’ve been a warrior since I was fourteen. Even before then, I beat all the boys in the games we played to train us for battle. That has never happened.”
“Go on.”
“I had my first kill at age fifteen, as well. Some soldier from a nearby kingdom didn’t treat me seriously on the battlefield. He fixed his eyes on my breasts, so I responded by burying my axe in his forehead right between the eyes.
“Impressive.”
“If you filled in my story, you’d see how many men I’ve killed defending our tribe.”
Glasha wants to share stories, but I need to continue my day. How did you act when your father was searching for a human husband to form an alliance with?”
“I felt like a displayed animal, so I—”
I provide the finish to how the sentence needed to end. “Acted like an animal.”
Glasha puts her head down, knowing that her actions were boorish and uninteresting. She thinks for a moment as I watch her sympathetically.
If half-orc women paraded me in front of themselves, speaking vile words and jeering at me as if I were less than human, I realize I may have acted the same way. Suppose the majority desired to bed me solely to boast about sleeping with a human man. How degrading, I thought, lowering my head.
Glasha realizes that I’m wrestling with something and says awkwardly, “You will do well with our story.”
I raise my head to thank her, but she’s gone.
Until the next time…when Princess Ingrid comes calling.