The Sweetest Thing
09-05-13, 09:53 PM
All bunnying is approved. Takes place during the Corone Civil War.
Smallflies hummed in the thick of the loam either side of the trail. Days like this one, long summery days of strong sunlight, had dried the dead leaves spring's thaw unveiled. The smallflies sang contendtedly, a marching yodel that kept Anastacia Alliendra's slim legs swishing. With each stride she drove herself up the dusty hill, and her cheap cotton dress made a determined noise against the finer weave of her red woolen cloak. The wind surged and covered the sound of insects for a moment as tree limbs ancient and young creaked all around her. Stacia ignored a growing cramp in her right calf and breathed evenly, thrashing the bloody great hill for all she was worth with each step. At long last she crested the hill, sapphire eyes sparkling. The wind lifted her golden hair and fanned it so the cherry streaks rippled, but the young woman's face fell as she looked down at nothing but more path and forest on either side, and on the horizon another steep slope.
"By the Queen's Sceptre, I would have wagered a day's labour against a night's wash this would be the last one!" The cream-skinned woman beat dust from her travelling clothes in frustration, then raised her hood. She'd removed it while climbing the hill, but did not cherish the result of prolonged sunlight on her porcelain features.
"I'd have matched that wager twice over, milady." Kiro Ryochi arrived silently and stood beside her. The broad-shouldered Akashiman placed both callused fists on his spine and arched till a series of pops rewarded his effort. Sighing, the mapmaker - cartographer - Stacia corrected herself, recalling the career Ryochi had recalled proudly over many a cookfire - touched the broad dagger sheathed on his belt briefly, then pulled his heavy vlince cloak to cover it. Stacia felt her eyebrow arc and schooled her face back to disinterested frustration. So many of Ryochi's mannerisms made her think of the warrior Knights of Scara Brae, who she had often watched training in her homeland. And yet the Akashiman claimed he had spent his entire life as a scholar in the Capital, until he'd moved to a small mountaintop village chasing the love of his life.
"Lucky for me I lost my breath two hills ago," Stacia muttered, and Ryochi chortled. Unshouldering the bulky pack that seemed weightless on his back, the Akashiman offered her a waterskin, which she accepted gratefully and sipped, turning her back to the way ahead. The hood shielded her eyes, but still she had to squint to make out the rest of their travelling party.
Six women in rough woollen cloaks trudged up the slope, a boy of no more than nine darting between them, bouncing twigs off their skirts and overturning rocks in search of beetles. The last of the women brought up the rear with one hand on a mule's bridle. The brawny beast kept its burden - a motley little cart that whimpered as it rolled - gliding up the hill at a steady rate. The mule's handler patted its snout idly between urging the others along ahead. Though they were all much younger than her, Matron Silter had a robust stamina that came from being busy fourteen hours a day. Her rounded cheeks glowed red, sunkissed from days of travel. Stacia sniffed and rolled her fine-boned shoulders, passing the waterskin back to Ryochi. "I may require a respite if this morning stretches much longer."
The Akashiman shook his head and spouted a mouthful of water through a rack of pine boughs. "Nay milady, ye can rest yourself in Underwood. Next is the last hill, unless I misremember." Ryochi packed the waterskin and shouldered his pack, making a hasty excuse and hurrying back down the hill to assist the Matron. The way he fawned over her ever since she'd accepted his expressions of everlasting love often amused Stacia, but the prospect of reaching Underwood had paperwings fluttering in her belly.
They had all lived in Pagration, the mountaintop town halfway between Akashima and Radasanth. With the deep snows of winter a platoon of Imperial soldiers had blanketed the town. They'd attempted to tax Matron Silter's brothel - tax a legitimate Corone chapter of the Sisterhood of Scara Brae! The mere memory made Stacia's cheeks match her crimson cloak. Soldiers were always looking for a free lay from a girl who knew how to make him forget he was a lamb stumbling blind-eyed to the slaughter. The officers had done little to curtail the advances of their lewder underlings - indeed, some of the highest ranked soldiers made the worst chauvinists. Using cleverly crafted snowshoes from the travelling shop Ryochi had operated, the small group from the Luxuria Inn had escaped under cover of darkness.
Between them, Silter and Ryochi were wealthy enough, and their gold had bought supplies enough for all, and the mule and shambling cart to carry their meagre belongings.
A life of freedom is better than no life at all. And there can be no living without freedom.
The ludicrous, circular thought had become something of a mantra for Stacia during the weeks of their travel. In Underwood, so stories said, forces of the rebellion gathered to support the Rangers' resistance. Rumours from farm folk east of Concordia claimed some of the best military minds in the country operated out of that forest stronghold. In Underwood Stacia could earn enough to return to Scara Brae, where the Matron and her new husband could settle down and start a family. There would be men aplenty in any military town, and if not gold in their pockets, silver and coppers enough to pay for an hour or two of her company. As sure as war meant men, men wanted Anastacia Alliendra.
Turning so the sun warmed her back, Stacia stared into the horizon until she spotted the smoketrails of chimney fires coming from the forest town. It was true. They had made it. Safe and sound.
Smallflies hummed in the thick of the loam either side of the trail. Days like this one, long summery days of strong sunlight, had dried the dead leaves spring's thaw unveiled. The smallflies sang contendtedly, a marching yodel that kept Anastacia Alliendra's slim legs swishing. With each stride she drove herself up the dusty hill, and her cheap cotton dress made a determined noise against the finer weave of her red woolen cloak. The wind surged and covered the sound of insects for a moment as tree limbs ancient and young creaked all around her. Stacia ignored a growing cramp in her right calf and breathed evenly, thrashing the bloody great hill for all she was worth with each step. At long last she crested the hill, sapphire eyes sparkling. The wind lifted her golden hair and fanned it so the cherry streaks rippled, but the young woman's face fell as she looked down at nothing but more path and forest on either side, and on the horizon another steep slope.
"By the Queen's Sceptre, I would have wagered a day's labour against a night's wash this would be the last one!" The cream-skinned woman beat dust from her travelling clothes in frustration, then raised her hood. She'd removed it while climbing the hill, but did not cherish the result of prolonged sunlight on her porcelain features.
"I'd have matched that wager twice over, milady." Kiro Ryochi arrived silently and stood beside her. The broad-shouldered Akashiman placed both callused fists on his spine and arched till a series of pops rewarded his effort. Sighing, the mapmaker - cartographer - Stacia corrected herself, recalling the career Ryochi had recalled proudly over many a cookfire - touched the broad dagger sheathed on his belt briefly, then pulled his heavy vlince cloak to cover it. Stacia felt her eyebrow arc and schooled her face back to disinterested frustration. So many of Ryochi's mannerisms made her think of the warrior Knights of Scara Brae, who she had often watched training in her homeland. And yet the Akashiman claimed he had spent his entire life as a scholar in the Capital, until he'd moved to a small mountaintop village chasing the love of his life.
"Lucky for me I lost my breath two hills ago," Stacia muttered, and Ryochi chortled. Unshouldering the bulky pack that seemed weightless on his back, the Akashiman offered her a waterskin, which she accepted gratefully and sipped, turning her back to the way ahead. The hood shielded her eyes, but still she had to squint to make out the rest of their travelling party.
Six women in rough woollen cloaks trudged up the slope, a boy of no more than nine darting between them, bouncing twigs off their skirts and overturning rocks in search of beetles. The last of the women brought up the rear with one hand on a mule's bridle. The brawny beast kept its burden - a motley little cart that whimpered as it rolled - gliding up the hill at a steady rate. The mule's handler patted its snout idly between urging the others along ahead. Though they were all much younger than her, Matron Silter had a robust stamina that came from being busy fourteen hours a day. Her rounded cheeks glowed red, sunkissed from days of travel. Stacia sniffed and rolled her fine-boned shoulders, passing the waterskin back to Ryochi. "I may require a respite if this morning stretches much longer."
The Akashiman shook his head and spouted a mouthful of water through a rack of pine boughs. "Nay milady, ye can rest yourself in Underwood. Next is the last hill, unless I misremember." Ryochi packed the waterskin and shouldered his pack, making a hasty excuse and hurrying back down the hill to assist the Matron. The way he fawned over her ever since she'd accepted his expressions of everlasting love often amused Stacia, but the prospect of reaching Underwood had paperwings fluttering in her belly.
They had all lived in Pagration, the mountaintop town halfway between Akashima and Radasanth. With the deep snows of winter a platoon of Imperial soldiers had blanketed the town. They'd attempted to tax Matron Silter's brothel - tax a legitimate Corone chapter of the Sisterhood of Scara Brae! The mere memory made Stacia's cheeks match her crimson cloak. Soldiers were always looking for a free lay from a girl who knew how to make him forget he was a lamb stumbling blind-eyed to the slaughter. The officers had done little to curtail the advances of their lewder underlings - indeed, some of the highest ranked soldiers made the worst chauvinists. Using cleverly crafted snowshoes from the travelling shop Ryochi had operated, the small group from the Luxuria Inn had escaped under cover of darkness.
Between them, Silter and Ryochi were wealthy enough, and their gold had bought supplies enough for all, and the mule and shambling cart to carry their meagre belongings.
A life of freedom is better than no life at all. And there can be no living without freedom.
The ludicrous, circular thought had become something of a mantra for Stacia during the weeks of their travel. In Underwood, so stories said, forces of the rebellion gathered to support the Rangers' resistance. Rumours from farm folk east of Concordia claimed some of the best military minds in the country operated out of that forest stronghold. In Underwood Stacia could earn enough to return to Scara Brae, where the Matron and her new husband could settle down and start a family. There would be men aplenty in any military town, and if not gold in their pockets, silver and coppers enough to pay for an hour or two of her company. As sure as war meant men, men wanted Anastacia Alliendra.
Turning so the sun warmed her back, Stacia stared into the horizon until she spotted the smoketrails of chimney fires coming from the forest town. It was true. They had made it. Safe and sound.