Nightsister
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone except Samara, the midwife, and the Grandmother (she's a different one). Anyone else who comes up that isn't in the trilogy is probably mine—if they aren't, I'll bestow credit where credit is due.
Author's Notes: This is the beginning of a story about a very strange character...she's half-Lirin, half-Dhracian. (No, I don't know exactly how this occurred.) She is Achmed's soulmate. We don't see him until later, though.
Chapter 1: Marinwae
Samara stared at the various swords lined up in the shop. When she had woken up this morning, she had randomly decided that she needed to learn how to use a sword. Never mind that she excelled with knives and really didn't need to learn another complicated form of combat, she just felt like it.
She loved her weapons, particularly her blades, and she loved the power they gave her.
One sword in particular caught her attention. It was sitting in a forgotten corner of the shop, in a plain black sheath with a hilt wrapped in matching leather. She carefully reached out and touched the hilt—
Hello! a very bright, very hyper voice said in her head.
She very nearly yelped and dropped the sword.
"That one ta yer liking, missy?" Derrik, the shopkeeper, asked.
"Yes...yes, how much?" she said, still a little dazed from the experience of having a voice suddenly speak in her head.
He studied the sword. "Twenty-five. No less."
"Cheapskate."
"Mutt-bitch."
"Fifteen, scum."
"Twenty-two, slut."
"Seventeen, my final offer, warthog-faced buffoon."
He blinked. "That be a new one, missy."
"Then you accept?"
"Not on yer life. Twenty-one. Not a penny less, yeh'll beggar me, whore."
She threw up her hands in disgust. "Do you know the meaning of the word imagination? Eighteen, pig."
"Twenty, bitch."
"Foul! Used it already!"
"I said mutt-bitch afore, this time I said bitch!"
"Either way, you called me a female dog, thus you repeat yourself, therefore I win. Eighteen."
Derrik sighed. "Aye, harlot, yeh win. She's yers for eighteen."
Samara grinned triumphantly. "Thank you, sludge."
"Yeh'll be the death of me, streetwalker."
"No I won't. You enjoy our haggle-insult sessions as much as I do. Plus, I'm your best customer, monkey-face."
"Even if yeh do cheat me and buy me good swords and knives for nothing at all. Dunno why I sell 'em so cheap, painted lady. Yeh must be seducin' me."
"Damn straight, miserable piece of dog droppings. And you've used synonyms for 'prostitute' at least four times today. I should get a discount, but I'll let you off easy. Because I'm nice."
"Aye, real nice, addict. Yeh buy me swords for nothing, and yeh add insult ta the injury with yer words."
"I know, O Great Worthless Idiotic Imbecilic Dumb Lackwit Completely and Totally Brainless Seller of Swords, Knives, and All Things Bladed," she said, grinning impudently. "That's why you love me."
"Aye, O Queen of Whores. That be why."
"Too short. I win. I get a discount next time, slimy, mangy, filthy cur."
"Damn!"
"Didn't insult me, oaf. Looks like I take home the sword and the victory!"
Without waiting for his response—Derrik knew how to use every blade in his shop—she scampered out the door.
Well, let's just say Lirin faces don't mix with Dhracian ones.She had large, oval, almost insectlike eyes, which set her apart from her Lirin family, but they were grey, which set her apart from the Dhracian colony. She had always been different, an outsider. In an effort to hide the distinctive veins on her face (proof of her Dhracian heritage), she had had her sister tattoo star and flower patterns on her face, making the veins seem part of the design.
Pain beyond imagining, pain that never faded entirely.
She unlocked her apartment, and set the sword on her bed. It hadn't spoken since that first cheerful greeting in Derrik's shop.
"All right, then, sword, I'm waiting."
You're very rude, you know. I do have a name.
"So I wasn't dreaming..."
Nope! the voice said cheerfully. And now you're stuck with me! We'll be lifelong friends!
"I don't believe this...I'm talking to a sword!"
Get used to it. You'll be doing it a lot, if I have my way with things.
"Your way will be out the window or to an extremely hot fire if you don't give me some real answers, now."
Ok, ok, the sword said hastily. What do you want to know?
"For starters, what the hell are you, what the hell made you, how the hell are you talking, and why me?"
That's a lot of questions. Samara glared at the sword. I'll answer them, just give me some time. Last question first: I picked you.
"Why?"
'Cause I felt like it. As for what the hell I am—by the way, you need to clean up your language—
"I will not clean up my damn language unless I bloody well feel like it, and I certainly won't do it at the request of a damn talking SWORD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU????"
Quiet, your neighbors will hear. And please use my name.
"I will as soon as your worshipfulness tells me what it is!" Samara said through gritted teeth.
It's Marinwae. Please use it in the future. As for what I am, what made me, and how I'm talking...well...let's start with what I am first. It's easiest. Have you ever heard of the Greatswords?