Okay, now. If anyone is reading this, let this be trumpeted forth over the land. I hate Sues. I hate clichés. Despise them both, actually. But this idea was calling me. Could all those hackneyed old stories be pulled off? Could someone successfully write a story about an original character(s)? maybe not, but I'd like to try.
Nyx Blackfire sat in the dark of her room, the moon rising over the battlements and painting the walls a dim and watery silver. The fetid stench of the city blew in through the open window, causing the girl to wince. The foul wind ruffled the edge of a silken sheet, a brocade curtain, the edge of a gown. For the room was indeed a true bed of luxury, from the rich Surdan carpets on the floor to the scent of citrus in the air, which, in the north, was hard to come by. The remains of an elaborate dinner had been set on the small bedside table, the waterfowl testifying once more to the wealth of this individual.
The little breeze continued its gusting, ruffling the shaggy hair of the girl, her lips pinching together as her hair ended up in her mouth. As her hair blew back, her ears were revealed. They weren't human, suffice it to say. However, they weren't the daggers, the shards, that were that of the elves. No, they were some hybrid between the two, slightly pointed, but lacking the elegance of a pure-bred elf's, while missing the graceful curve of a human's ear. If you were to inspect her face a bit more closely, you would see more evidence of her dual parenthood, in the angled, harsh lines, the lack of the sweet softness that made humans attractive, but with more crudely shaped features that made up the famed elven beauty. No, this girl, while pretty enough, was no great beauty, certainly.
But she didn't care, or at least not now.
Nyx's legs were crossed, and her palms rested upon her knees. Eyes closed, she murmured softly, her body almost completely still.
"May my feeble shell be seen fit to house his spirit, may I be seen worthy in his eyes, let my blade be ever sharp and ready for his noble cause," came her whisper, and her eyes slowly opened, large and pale green. They were perhaps her best feature, but lent to her face a rather childish look that she despised with every fibre of her being.
Assassins didn't look like children. They were fearsome, brutal, cold, a femme fatale, if they be attractive at all, or even female. And assassins were supposed to look intimidating, not tiny. Not so small and petite as to look like an errant fourteen-year-old girl.
But perhaps...it might lower the guards of some, Nyx thought, running a hand through her hair. Maybe it would work in some crucial moment, and she could swagger back to the king, boasting of a job well done.
A manic light gleamed in Nyx's eyes as she thought of the king. She was driven by approval, constantly seeking attention, affection, recognition, only to be blotted out by someone, be it Morzan's whelp or news of the Varden's Rider. Mouth twisting up bitterly, Nyx stood, hurrying over to the mirror and combing an ivory comb through her dark hair. She dabbed a bit of rouge on her cheeks, even daring a bit of colour on her thin lips. She carefully outlined her eyes with the kohl, inspecting her reflection. Surely this would make her look older, competent, something to be proud of. Nyx eagerly studied herself.
She saw a painted child.
"Why do I even try?" she muttered, bringing a damp cloth to her face and wiping it across fiercely, almost angrily.
A smudged urchin stared back this time.
Shaking her head, Nyx ducked her head into the lukewarm water on the dresser, scrubbing vigorously at her face and neck. She rubbed a cake of lavender soap onto the cloth, hoping the scent would calm her, though it usually failed miserably. No, only that was a sure cure, and she had not the time to take some that night. Once again attacking her now-damp hair with a comb, Nyx suddenly clapped her hands.
"Slave!" she barked, voice ripping through the evening stillness.
A skinny slave girl scurried into the room, her collar gleaming dully in the low light. Nyx grunted in acknowledgement, lighting a small oil lamp. Arms shaking, the girl combed Nyx's hair out, leaving it sleek and soft. She untied her mistress' dress, letting it fall to the ground to pool about Nyx's ankles, a puddle of black velvet. Nyx stepped carelessly away, aware that the cost of the dress could feed a family for half a year, maybe even more, and smirking obnoxiously at the knowledge.
The little slave girl hurried about the room, blowing out all the candles but one, which she placed by Nyx's bed. She stoked the brazier of glowing coals, as the nights were getting cold, thanks to the approach of winter.
"Get it done, girl. Unlike some, I have work to do in the morning," Nyx snapped, savouring the fear emanating from the slave.
The other girl yelped in surprise, then clapped a hand to her mouth as Nyx glared. She hastily helped Nyx out of her camisole and into a linen sleeping shift, then pulled back the covers. Nyx climbed into bed, and waved the slave away.
"Begone from me."
The slave girl backed from the room, relief evident in her face. Nyx grinned nastily, then pulled the covers to her chin, snuggling into their warmth. An enormous yawn nearly split her face in two, and she curled into her customary foetal position, twining a finger through her hair and twisting it around, her eyelids growing heavier and heavier. With another yawn, she looked out the window, a small smile ghosting over her face.
Tomorrow was to be a busy day.
With that, she dropped off to sleep, small form tiny and vulnerable, so easily broken.
So? Whaddya think? Feedback would be greatly appreciated...is she too Sue-ish? Do you like her? Are you intrigued? This is a rewrite of Book Four, by the way. More information about Nyx will one revealed in coming chapters, if I receive enough motivation to continue.