Hector glanced out the window staring at the glorious Aegean Sea.
They will be coming soon. Every time he thought about the imprudence of his
younger bother, Paris and all of the problems he had brought upon Troy it
made Hector ill. The fate of his people rested on his shoulders, the fate
of his child and future children rested on the next few scrolls he would
write.
Ten scrolls had been written with the plea for men from their allies. All ten had been pressed with the finest wax of their country and all ten had the royal Trojan crest imprinted upon them. Yet, there were eleven scrolls that were spread in front of him. The last scroll was a plea to a warrior whom they all had forsaken two years ago.
Kyrie of Mycia was a fearless warrior. The best in the world and even himself, Prince Hector could not deny Kyrie's abilities on the battlefield. Kyrie had come from lands unknown at an early age. The young warrior had trained with the princes of Troy since the age of five until fifteen. At fifteen the warrior had left the Trojan lands to seek the fortunes of the lands from whence he came.
Still at the last battle that Troy had fallen under, Kyrie had shown up swords a blazing and eyes that were dead. He had slaughtered all of Troy's enemies and accepted none of Priam's praise. He looked upon the gentle king as his own father and honored him thus so. He paraded the finest Asian spices, and metals in front of the king; luxurious Slavic wolf pelts; and divine artwork from the Middle East. Kyrie's love for the brothers and gentle Andromache was never overlooked either as the solider always brought the trio blessings from the far off lands she visited for. As the fates had surmised from an early age, Kyrie's wanderlust and penchant for bloodlust drove him to be a skilled mercenary from which the higher bidder often won his services. Yet, all the money I the world could not stop the darkness that lurked around the corners.
During a small skirmish along the Trojan boarder an armed resistance had flared up. Kyrie and himself had been caught between two opposing forces. Under extreme distress Hector had managed to find an exit out of the harm's way. As they fled toward the ships Kyrie had remarked that the "Snarling of wolves does not sound as good as their bloodied throats." This odd remark confused Hector as often Kyrie had never spoken much of violence. Yet, upon the ships the confrontation among the young prince and even younger Kyrie had flared up.
"Oh, I see our dearest Paris has crossed the ocean to save us all," Kyrie snapped. This unexpected outburst had not sat well with the equally passionate Paris.
"And I see our little bloodthirsty wolf has come back with naught, but a wound across his gapping face," he retorted back. It was at the end of that perilous sentence that Troy lost its finest solider. Kyrie lunged forward and proceeded to slice open Paris's stomach with a Japanese sych. Screaming words from whence only a siren could understand the warrior was hoisted off the bleeding Prince. Being quickly reprimanded by Hector himself, Kyrie was sentenced to the jail cell on the ship. The entire way home Kyrie sat in the dank and dark cell contemplating her fate and that of his adopted family.
Upon arriving from Troy Kyrie had been sent free. The last any living Trojan saw of Kyrie was of the mercenary walking away from the gated paradise into the desert.
It had not been until six moons ago that Hector had heard of Kyrie being alive.
A wealthy merchant had been selling his goods in a land called Mecca when he saw a mysterious looking solider guarding the King. He described the shield of turquoise and silver to Priam, and remarked how odd the solider looked...
The solider paraded around the city like he was a god. His short stature was by no means joked about as he carried his shield. It is a long rectangular one with silver and turquoise, with the most unusual marking being carved around the boarder. In the center of the shield was the crest of many royal nations, among which Troy stood out among them all as being the largest and most ornately decorated. His helmet is that of a Spartan style with more odd lettering surrounding the eye wells. The shin and forearm protectors of this warrior were in the same metal style. Except these had an unique language on them from which a bystander told me they were English and told a story. A story about a demi-god name Beowulf and a wicked creature known as Grendal...
It was then the merchant prattled on about the Anglo-Saxon story that Kyrie was quite fond of.
Being beckoned to the present Hector sadly shifted his eyes from the parchment in front of him to azure sky and sapphire sea. It will be soon that the treacherous Greek oars will dip into them and contaminate the beauty of our land with their blood.
As still as the air was Hector could not help, but believe that where ever Kyrie was right now he was lounging playing with his son and enjoying the beauty of the sun. It was then that Hector rolled the scroll up and placed the royal seal on it.
Like it or not Kyrie had to come back to the place he called home, and again deal with the sorrowing kingdom of Troy, because as the Gods would have said the war would be one by one soldier's heroism, and Kyrie was defiantly heroic, even if he, Kyrie, was a young woman.
Ten scrolls had been written with the plea for men from their allies. All ten had been pressed with the finest wax of their country and all ten had the royal Trojan crest imprinted upon them. Yet, there were eleven scrolls that were spread in front of him. The last scroll was a plea to a warrior whom they all had forsaken two years ago.
Kyrie of Mycia was a fearless warrior. The best in the world and even himself, Prince Hector could not deny Kyrie's abilities on the battlefield. Kyrie had come from lands unknown at an early age. The young warrior had trained with the princes of Troy since the age of five until fifteen. At fifteen the warrior had left the Trojan lands to seek the fortunes of the lands from whence he came.
Still at the last battle that Troy had fallen under, Kyrie had shown up swords a blazing and eyes that were dead. He had slaughtered all of Troy's enemies and accepted none of Priam's praise. He looked upon the gentle king as his own father and honored him thus so. He paraded the finest Asian spices, and metals in front of the king; luxurious Slavic wolf pelts; and divine artwork from the Middle East. Kyrie's love for the brothers and gentle Andromache was never overlooked either as the solider always brought the trio blessings from the far off lands she visited for. As the fates had surmised from an early age, Kyrie's wanderlust and penchant for bloodlust drove him to be a skilled mercenary from which the higher bidder often won his services. Yet, all the money I the world could not stop the darkness that lurked around the corners.
During a small skirmish along the Trojan boarder an armed resistance had flared up. Kyrie and himself had been caught between two opposing forces. Under extreme distress Hector had managed to find an exit out of the harm's way. As they fled toward the ships Kyrie had remarked that the "Snarling of wolves does not sound as good as their bloodied throats." This odd remark confused Hector as often Kyrie had never spoken much of violence. Yet, upon the ships the confrontation among the young prince and even younger Kyrie had flared up.
"Oh, I see our dearest Paris has crossed the ocean to save us all," Kyrie snapped. This unexpected outburst had not sat well with the equally passionate Paris.
"And I see our little bloodthirsty wolf has come back with naught, but a wound across his gapping face," he retorted back. It was at the end of that perilous sentence that Troy lost its finest solider. Kyrie lunged forward and proceeded to slice open Paris's stomach with a Japanese sych. Screaming words from whence only a siren could understand the warrior was hoisted off the bleeding Prince. Being quickly reprimanded by Hector himself, Kyrie was sentenced to the jail cell on the ship. The entire way home Kyrie sat in the dank and dark cell contemplating her fate and that of his adopted family.
Upon arriving from Troy Kyrie had been sent free. The last any living Trojan saw of Kyrie was of the mercenary walking away from the gated paradise into the desert.
It had not been until six moons ago that Hector had heard of Kyrie being alive.
A wealthy merchant had been selling his goods in a land called Mecca when he saw a mysterious looking solider guarding the King. He described the shield of turquoise and silver to Priam, and remarked how odd the solider looked...
The solider paraded around the city like he was a god. His short stature was by no means joked about as he carried his shield. It is a long rectangular one with silver and turquoise, with the most unusual marking being carved around the boarder. In the center of the shield was the crest of many royal nations, among which Troy stood out among them all as being the largest and most ornately decorated. His helmet is that of a Spartan style with more odd lettering surrounding the eye wells. The shin and forearm protectors of this warrior were in the same metal style. Except these had an unique language on them from which a bystander told me they were English and told a story. A story about a demi-god name Beowulf and a wicked creature known as Grendal...
It was then the merchant prattled on about the Anglo-Saxon story that Kyrie was quite fond of.
Being beckoned to the present Hector sadly shifted his eyes from the parchment in front of him to azure sky and sapphire sea. It will be soon that the treacherous Greek oars will dip into them and contaminate the beauty of our land with their blood.
As still as the air was Hector could not help, but believe that where ever Kyrie was right now he was lounging playing with his son and enjoying the beauty of the sun. It was then that Hector rolled the scroll up and placed the royal seal on it.
Like it or not Kyrie had to come back to the place he called home, and again deal with the sorrowing kingdom of Troy, because as the Gods would have said the war would be one by one soldier's heroism, and Kyrie was defiantly heroic, even if he, Kyrie, was a young woman.