Ch 1: It Begins With A Scream
My story begins with a scream and ends with a sob. Everything in between should be unnecessary but it's not. The between is horror. The between is happiness and love. Death and accepting. The between is where all the interesting things happen. This is my story and I wish to tell it and like how all stories begin my story starts with a scream.
)*(
My eyes snapped open lashes sticking together with sweat and tears. My mouth is gapping open with a silent scream of horror and my eyes roll into the back of my head as memories associated with these emotions flicker through my mind fast as lightning. My chest heaved with a heady wave of nausea. I sit myself upright, emotions sickly sweet and sticking to the back of my throat like the memory of smoke. Curling into myself and trying to ignore the uncomfortable sticking of my soaked nightshirt I filter through the fade induced panic. Its not quite a bad dream but overwhelming emotions that will take me in the middle of the night. I don't know how long I sit there in my misery. I only know that my back aches and my wrists are decorated with bloody half moons and streaks of rust. I refuse to move in fear of another backflash, not quite sure that I am steady in my own time.
Being of a dreamless race may protect and deprive me of the sleeping hallucinations but it did not protect from the sudden upheaval of emotions brought on by the veil. I have always been sensitive to it and it to me. If I were any other race the Circle would have taken me in for training many years ago but as it stands I must keep myself and my surroundings under control by practicing theoretical magic and veil desensitizing. On some days though...I cannot keep the emotions amplified by spirits at bay. These are the times I consider begging to be taken to be tranquiled. But the thought of being like those poor, incomplete souls turns my stomach.
Huffing a few sobs against my knees I silence just as quickly and my painfully pinched face relaxes, my clenched fists the only indication to my continued distress and even those loosen in fake calm. I look out the small warped window and see the pregnant moon rippled like a pond, still bright and the stars twinkling merrily through the void. I see my own warped image in the dark glass and look away just as quickly.
Stretching until wet pops relax my back I shake off the heavy velvet duvet and, as silently as I can, tiptoe to the wardrobe. I keep my sight from the mirror until I am covered in a pair of tight grey pants and a matching cotton over shirt with the front lacings loose. Pliable leather bracers cover my forearms and shins. Looking into the mirror I could hardly see the scaring. I settle a heavy black cloak over the assemble and adjust it just right to cover the rest of the ugly markings. The dark fur cuff tickles my nose as I attempt to shield the one on my face that ran from my right eyebrow through part of my mouth and chin. The new bright red tattoos distract from the mar I still unconsciously lean it away from light. I look down and away from my own reflection, curling into myself. It seems today will be a bad one. Normally I can function just fine but in times like these, with a storm of emotions ravaging my mind, I feel like curling up and never leaving my room let alone looking at these permanent reminders.
Snagging my hard soled boots from the bottom of the oaken wardrobe I turn away only for the damned door to slam loudly closed. I hold my breath for what feels like minutes waiting for father to barge in wielding his war axe and a groggy face. When it didn't come I sighed in relief. Carefully opening the door and leaning out I can only hear the loud bear like snores of father and carefully ease out and down the newly installed stairway to the front of the house. Sniggering at the image of my dad falling through I make my way to the kitchen.
Grabbing a golden apple and a couple honey rolls I shove my midnight snack into my satchel hanging by the door while slowly easing open the notoriously squeaky door. My uncles have offered to fix it but father refuses, saying he likes knowing when his child is sneaking away. It's been a hindrance in nights like this. Sometimes he catches me and forces me to stay and drink tea with him. While its considerate I want to be alone to work my body to the point of exhaustion and forget what it's like to feel.
Shoving my bare feet into my boots and tying my ivory curls back with only some difficulty I stand straight, belying my own exhaustion. I'm very happy the others convinced me to shave the left side of my head or it would be much harder to control and nearly impossible to tie in the leather thong. Rubbing the stubble I take off into the night quickly sprinting my way down the cobblestoned streets until I make it into the diseased heart of this city. I climb the side of a near apartment and onto the blessedly dry rooftop.
I spend the few hours until dawn traversing the alleyways and rooftops of the city I call home, smog and workers sweat constantly tickling my nose. Officially the humans run the joint but everyone knows the Carta are the only reason the city hasn't consumed itself. It might be the reason why they turn their cheeks to us and allow certain liberties. Ones that do not include being caught out past curfew, but as Uncle Fen always says, "If no one sees it it hasn't happened." Wise man him.
I stop to rest a little, hands on my knees and controlled huffing, and see movement out of the corner of my eye out from the dirty ally into the well lit main street. A night watch is set up near these richer streets and I smirk at the challenge. Crouching down I sneak up a balcony onto the next, unlocking the pretty glass doors into a well furnished waiting room. Carefully sticking to the shadows I search every drawer and hit a jackpot. A bag of coins and jewelry in the locked drawer of the highly polished mahogany desk. I leave the old looking pieces and make my way out with minimal jingling. Not my most discrete work but I'm more in it to numb myself tonight. And I do just that, breaking in to the richer looking houses only snagging a couple trinkets here and there.
And perhaps a few glasses of that aged whisky in the extremely delicate crystal decanter but that's my business. But it made me more clumsy than I anticipated, my footsteps louder than they aught to be and my sight a bit blurry. I curse my own light weight when I hear an alarmed guard. Shoving my hood up I decide tonight is as good as any night to polish up my escaping skills. Keeping to the shadows and trying to seem more like a short human than a tall dwarf I shove the loose strands of my recognizable hair behind my ears.
It's a few close calls later when I escape fully and by time the sun peeks over the horizon I'm on the watchtower feeding the crows my rolls. The night gives me clarity and peace (ignoring my buzzed stumbling earlier since I sobered) and I'm unwilling to go back to the hustle and bustle of day life. Just the thought of the pushing crowds is enough to make my stomach clench. Too many people and probabilities. Too many opportunities for the entire situation to go tits up.
With a heavy sigh I bid farewell to my friends and toss the rest of my crumbs at the scrawnier looking fellows. Standing I take off running to take a practiced leap off the ledge onto the roof of the nearest building. I immediately roll to absorb momentum and grab the hand holds I hammered into the roof months ago after I took a flying dive onto the street and into a holding cell. Brushing off my knees I stick my tongue at the still dark window of the constables office next to the court house I just landed on. The bastards have taken me in so many times we're on first name basis. Frel's wife is pregnant with their first child and he bemoaned the future offspring to my father who is also on first name basis with them. I should get them a cake. Or better yet bake one. Yea that sounds good.
Humming happily I run all the way home racing no one in particular except for the rising sun. I make my way into the outskirts just in time for the sun to fully spill over the horizon and I sidle to the shadowed half of the house. I clutch at the crumbling brick and heave myself upwards to the unlocked top window. Slipping through the attic window and sneaking myself downstairs as quietly as I can I tiptoe around the many noisy floor boards in this aged home. I can hear father cooking in the kitchen and the smell of eggs and pork waft up to me.
My mouth waters but I must attempt for normality so I go to my room and change into some night clothes, stashing the bag out of sight. Hunching my back and mussing my hair up I look into the the mirror...and blanch at the heavy shadows that have been steadily growing in size this past year, darker than the constant hollows I had before these hellish forms of nightmares. My face is slack in exhaustion skin sagging near my mouth where a young woman should never sag. I frown and tenderly touch the near purple area that looks even darker from my ashen skin that seems thinner now that I look at it. My bright blue veins pop out as if my skin is translucent and I start at the washed out exhausted creature in the mirror. The only color in my pinched face is the bright red of my tattoos dipping into the hollows of my cheeks and sloping downwards with my forehead and the startlingly bright eyes peering at me wide eyed through the tangle of curls. My mouth is so tightly pursed the normally pink lips are devoid of life. I slowly relax my face and watch it gradually transform in the mirror into a vaguely familiar mask. Next I straightened my shoulders from their defeated hunch, pull out my practiced smile and try to ignore the deadness in my eyes.
I slowly hobble downstairs, heavy footed and as tired looking as I can. Not that it's that difficult. Fathers hulking figure turns towards me away from the stove and rolls his eyes. His ember red beard is already elaborately braided and his hair is tied into a high horses tail atop his head. Not only has he been up for some time, he's also dragging me to the training arena if the knuckle bracers on the counter say anything. Knowing the jig is up before it could even begin I accept early defeat gracefully and straighten while smiling sheepishly and pulling up a chair. He stares me down a moment more before he nods and turns to finish breakfast and the last calm I'll be having all day.
"What did you draw?" His voice is gruff enough without sleep thickening it but I'm used to it. Used to my frightening great brute of a father with his lovely beard and heavily tattooed body. I stopped noticing his towering form as a child, his deep and stone heavy voice has sung me the sweetest lullabies and his tree truck arms have torn through my enemy's. I fear nothing from my father. Except when he drags me to the training arena to kick my arse. Sometimes literally. In front of others.
"Just some crows." My charcoal sketching is nothing too fancy, just like my other talents. Just enough talent to promise something great if I put effort in mastering it. But what use is singing or embroidery on the battlefield where my heart yearns to be but in the same breath protests against? My cooking skills could feed a couple hungry bellies but not save a family from bandits.
Reminded of my weakness my grip on the chair arm tightens until I hear cracking. Quickly taking my hand from the arm rest I look up to see father with an odd expression and setting some plates down. Smiling wolfishly I start to devour the meal in front of me, conscious of my impending training and not wanting to throw up if hit in the belly like the first disastrous time. Gulping down my cup of water I wash my dishes then run upstairs to piss and change. By time I'm down my newly oiled leather training gear is on and my hair is twisted into a loose plait. My hand held war axes are strapped to my hips the dark green wrappings dangling. I so wanted to take Jackle down from her case but she would be a bit of overkill so the twins Par and Reave will do. He looks me up and down and nods approval and so as one we make for the door.
We don't talk as we leave the house. I didn't need to wait and follow him when he stopped to lock the heavy door from intruders, so familiar is the path to the arena. But I do and swiftly I follow after him, respectfully keeping to his right and at least a step behind. The walk deeper into the heavily wooded area behind our house is silent except for the odd snapping branch. It's familiar and soothing in a way of the calm before the storm. The birds titter in the ever growing trees around us and a running river nearly drowns out the approaching sounds of clashing metal and grunts. All it takes is carefully walking across a precariously placed log and we exit the fantastical woodland and enter the family compound.
Much of it can be lost among the thick trees. In fact most of it is above the forest floor. Only looking straight up can you see the almost invisible vine bridges connecting the canopy and the bark covered houses. All that's left on the ground is the market place where many illegal dealings occur every day, the blacksmith, and the formal training grounds which also double as an arena. I never questioned why we don't live here, just know that it's how this is. I look up in familiar wonder to see bodies scurrying across thin bridges and wooden walkways around the dense village above. I know the only reason they are out is because of the hidden scouts set up all over the forest recognizing us.
Green and golden filtered light dances with dust moats and the smoke from the clanging and busy smithies. Children drop bunches of leaves on the humoring public below, men and women shaking the green off and yelling good natured like up at the already running rascals. No matter how many times I see it I am still awestruck and I wonder how any mountain dweller could look down on our way of life. But I shake off my childish awe and fix my face into one of a future Carta Matriarch. I do not actively glare at the wide eyed new recruits who have not been trusted enough to gain residence in the sky city but I pass over them dismissively, often correcting their own attitudes with a well placed blow or word, or weapon stances if they are brave enough to stop and ask for it. Yet another thing I doubt I will get used to. I often wonder what it would have been like if I grew up here. Maybe they wouldn't fear so much? Maybe I wouldn't feel the need to intimidate to keep power seekers away? Who knows.
We slowly make our way past the temporary stands selling deals and illegal valuables, past the gritty and sour smiths who nod our way, and take familiar turns to the arena. It is not much, just a sand filled pit dug several feet deep and stands surrounding the semi circle but it is a safe place where new trainees can be tested and taught and where betrayers go to be judged and possibly fight for their life. It is in the middle of town and the easiest to hide as a huge clump of foliage looms overhead and a specially crafted net can be dropped to hide it and any young ones still inside. Truly the safest place to be as I remember the many times a foolish human has stumbled into town and I was shoved inside along with the whimpering children and nervous new recruits.
We entered the nearby weaponry, pulled down the leather blunters and attached them to our weapons ignoring the specially crafted training weapons. We still did not speak while people slowly wandered into the stands and the heavy branches above to watch. Nodding to each other we got on opposite ends of the pit and jumped in. In the minuets allotted to us and our preparation a grizzled trainer boomed above the noisy chatter of onlookers. I tune out the familiar guidelines and tighten my own leather knuckle bracers, wearily watching my father clasp on his iron ones. I'll need to be fast to win this fight. Slowly taking my axes from my thigh straps I twirl them and get into a lazy defensive stance as he takes out his short swords, really just long daggers, and flips them into the inside of his forearms. The ringing of a bell signals the beginning of our fight and quiets the masses as we stalk around each other, looking for familiar openings and baring our teeth as our frustrations, or fears, our anger towards each other that we cumulate on a daily basis, come out to play.
Our battle started slow, just an exercise so that I may remember my forms. Then we gradually upped the brutality and speed until a full blown battle was being fought. Our strikes are bone jarring and our mouths are twisted in pure bloodlust. Eventually our weapons were flung away but we did not stop. Like savages we ripped into each other with hand to hand combat. Sand was flung, blood sprayed, sweat poured, and screams of rage and pain ripped through the air when I was put face down into the sand and bound there until I almost blacked out. Still I struggled weakly, bucking at the immovable mass of muscle cursing and struggling above me. Spitting out the wad of bloody sand from my mouth I wheeze the words I have been trying to swallow down when he jarred Par from my hand.
"I yield!" Despite the near silent groan the weight pulled off immediately. My arms where released and I felt my limp body be rolled onto my back. When my sight cleared of the swirling colors and black spots my fathers bloody and worried face was above me along with my uncles, his closest friends and companions. As the ringing in my ears slowed to a stop I could here the people practically going rabid, cheering and stomping as bags of money routinely flew over head. I laughed out of breath at the crooks I call family.
Uncle Uri, our healer and fathers oldest friend, was looking me over testing the tenderness of my ribs. But for now my wounds only ache deeply and I bless the Maker and the Stone for adrenalin. Next he checked my eyes and determined me not concussed. But he still glared at my father who withered just slightly under the intimidating war hawks gaze. But points in his favor he didn't completely cower under the glassy blue fire that seemed to spit out whenever something invoked his explosive anger.
Shoving a putrid concoction down my throat he ignores my sputters and pitiful whines. Father snorts at me through his broken nose only to wince and look at my uncle with the most pitiful expression I have ever seen a grown man wear. Uri rolls his eyes and quickly sets the crooked appendage with no warning. I'm still seeing remnants of double so I lie there and chuckle at his yelps of pain.
Fens knife sharp face peers over mine, sleek brows crooked in grudging amusement and already thin lips pursed. His younger brother Weston, a burly and stocky man with bright blond curls so very different from his brothers murky brown locks, looms over his shoulder arms crossed and a shiny grin on his face. Their eyes are the exact same shade of dusty jade. I slowly blink my own that are most likely bloodshot and swollen if the pain and grinding feeling says anything. Nice.
I smirk good naturedly up at them and they exchange glances. Weston leans down to gather me up like a child. Head resting on his shoulder and legs straddling his waist. I quickly look around, worried that an entire audience could be seeing this when, to my relief, the stands are deserted and my fathers personal guard pushing the mass of bodies away from the edge. Fen pats my head and slips some candy in my loosely clenched hand then turns away to probably give my father a good talking to about proper arena rules and guidelines. At least it's not me in trouble this time and I notice, with a sense of pride, that my father has more bruises and lacerations than me. Giggling like a loon I burrow into my uncles collar.
"How long were we at it?" I'm not all that surprised by my scratching voice and burning throat.
"At least an hour. Gonna get ya some water and some comfy clothes." Exaggerated sniffing is heard. "After a long bath."
I laugh again and doze a bit in his arms until the familiar creak of our door is heard. He brings me up to my bathroom and my youngest uncle Sasha is already filling the tub with steaming water. Kissing Weston on the cheek I leap off him only to stumble as my legs lost feeling. Grunting I slump against the wall and tell them to leave then throughly enjoy my bath for an hour, watching with fascination as my wounds fade and knit close. Must have been pure elf root soak Sasha added. I must have looked in a bad way if they used such a high concentration. I dip my lathered hair into the murky water before getting out and drying in front of the ancient silver backed mirror in the corner. It's a bit disorientating seeing the old bands of scars tight across my body, even the tender breast tissue is damaged and I swallow down my reaction. I have cried my fill today, no sense wasting anymore energy on something that cannot change.
Instead I look at my never changing features. I brush against the black strands and patches in my lashes, brows, and my hair. My skin no longer looks so ashen, reddening to a more rosy state with my own relaxation. I stare into my eyes that I am still, after so many years, unable to tell what color they are exactly. With every shift the candles catch my eyes and turn them a greying blue but the dwindling sunlight caught them aflame with molten gold. Green emerged in the shadows and every shade in between fought for attention. Nodding in satisfaction I pop my back with a groan. My muscles are pleasantly sore and stretched but I know it will hurt later so I hurry to slather the medical smelling lotion on, tending to the stretching and tearing from the unnaturally tight skin that hadn't healed in the bath. When I finally come down in my threadbare breeches and a shirt lent to me by someone I can't remember it's to find my family arguing heatedly.
"You know damn well she's ready!" My fathers booming voice is in no way muffled against his fiery beard. I absentmindedly brush off the billowing faded green pants and the vivid blue shirt as I lean against the door frame. They ignore or don't notice me and continue their pissing match.
"We're not saying she's not but she hasn't even reached her majority yet. And what if something goes wrong? None of us will be within miles of the place and we can't keep her safe."
Uncle Uri's calming voice of reason is backed by the loud muttering of the others. I purse my mouth and furrow my brows. What on earth are they talking about?
"What's going on here? Whose going where?"
It might be a new recruit they're talking about. But this it the first time I've heard of it and what of them being gone? This seems highly suspicious and it's backed by their awkward swaying until Father, blunt as ever, stands. But he doesn't seem like my father at this moment. He looks like a Carta leader, larger than life and intimidating to all hell. My breath is trapped in my chest as I watch him walk up to me pride in his eyes and gently grips my shoulders.
"Pack your bag dear gem. I have a mission for you."