Erythis tossed and turned tumultuously, the silken sheets of
her bedroll sliding against her near naked form. She shuddered against the cool
air, adding to the endless undulations of her slim form. Her brow was knit in
pain and she let out a quiet moan of displeasure.
Her unconscious form abruptly threw itself onto her side and
her arms drew up under her breasts, and her knees drew upward. She held herself
tightly as sweat beaded down her chest and into her bosom, fighting against
whatever ailment was so ruthlessly assaulting her.
Her toes curled, gripping the sheets so close to the ground
while her hands made red marks on her pale flesh. She thrashed outward, splayed
now on her back, and her crimson hair stuck to her forehead, still wet with
sweat.
Veins bulged from her neck and forehead as she lay there, as
though she was pinned down, and her jaw clenched tightly. In her mind’s eye,
however, a much more sinister scene was unfolding:
Torn robes fluttered
about his figure as he collapsed to the ground. The thump of an emaciated body collapsing downward
echoes off the cold, stone, distant walls around him. His clothing ruffles
around him as he slumped backward. Pale flesh was exposed, and where it was,
along with the tatters about it, were painted red.
His head fell backward
as he settled himself against the damp floor. With it, dirty blond hair tumbles
backward. His body felt strangely fluid, given how weak he was. His eyes, once
fierce with imperial domination, were now weak with fatigue and sad with
hopelessness. He had been caught unaware, and was now a toy for a fiend that
was so alien to him, and yet somehow was familiar.
As Prince-Regent,
Vynlarion had always held a grand, almost bellicose persona, but those closest
to him knew much better that he was a lonely man, alienated from them by his
station. He was a king without a crown, and the daily humiliation of presenting
himself as his father’s mouthpiece had been wearing. Even still, he took to his
work with vigor and excitement, knowing that even if the people thought him a
figurehead, he did make all the decisions.
Now he was a prisoner
whose most earnest wishes were threefold: food, water, and his mind.
The first two were
routinely denied by Vynlarion until he could bear it no longer and was forced
to grovel to his unseen and unheard captors for something – anything – to
sustain his thinning body.
The third was much
more complicated. When he ate, the food sustained and revived him, but shortly
thereafter his mind became slow, his thought processes easily confused. In
moments of starved clarity he postulated that the bread and water he was given
were poisoned with a mental numbing agent. However he had to eat, and so a
confused, sad husk he was to remain.
Looking down at his
withered body, the once grand figure of the First Kingdom pondered how long it
had been. The large, discoloured welt over his small intestine, grey and purple
in hue, throbbed as he observed it. The wound was once an inch-wide hole made
by an arcane means with no discernable source. It had been made on one of his
first days in the miserable, large cavern that was his personal prisoner.
His left leg laid
awkwardly out before him. All was well until he reached the shin, where a ten
degree angle in the limb was present. Given any weight to bear, the punished
extremity forced him to scream in agony.
However it was not the
multitude of injuries across his form that left him so miserable, nor even the
befuddling curse on his mind, that gave him such misery. His heart was still
strong, if wavering, but it was the injuries he had incurred on the inside of
his body. His stomach burned with such fury he often found himself violently
vomiting up stomach acid and blood. His bladder felt swollen and caused him
painful passing of urine, also tinged with blood and strangely coloured green
liquid. Meanwhile, his muscles throbbed at all times, nerves firing randomly
and without any reason. Sleep never came for long and when it did was filled
with nightmares of his own, as well as his loved ones’, bloody ends.
But what did royal
blood count for when one was chained in a bondage of the mind? What did fine
clothing and eloquent speech matter when all your voice could sound were
anguished cries and confused murmurs?
Nothing.
It counted for
nothing.
He was nothing.
“Erythis…”
“Vynlarion!” Erythis gasped as she lurched upward. Her pale,
nude body was covered in sweat and trembled with adrenaline. The dream had felt
so real, as though she was there to smell his stench, feel his spasming
muscles, and as though she herself was in his place. Clutching at her body, she
struggled to steady herself.
Her mind struggled to reconcile the dream with her reality;
one of cold damp and the sounds of a familiar, but on this eve, unnerving, night.
In her dream, the expansive cell was cold, but dry. Here Erythis was also cold,
but chilled by her own sweat.
The sorceress adjusted her twisted bedroll and slid it off
her form. The thick cotton mercifully gave way and allow her otherwise tangled
lower body to move. From her satchel she procured her clothing, and donned it
as quickly as she could, the chill of the night erecting goosebumps on her
skin.
Erythis felt weak, pitiful and vulnerable. Her mind was
betraying her, yet as a sorceress it was her greatest asset! “I won’t be undone
by this task before it’s barely begun…” She whispered to herself, still
trembling. She folded her arms over her chest and clasped her arms, slowly
rising to a stand. Her fingers clenched tightly, and now she shook with fury.
The air slowly began to tingle with a foreign king of
electricity. It was a sensation she know well, and given her calling in life,
she was invigorated by it. Her crimson hair had tumbled over her face whilst
she rose and now her bent head was obscured, but she did not notice. “I am not
weak…” She spoke, her voice becoming more assured. Around her, small specks of
crimson and brown appeared and disappeared, dancing lazily around her.
Throwing her long crimson tresses back, she looked up,
finding the fiery hues of the sky a perfect illustration for the righteous fury
that boiled inside of her. Her hands snapped to her sides as she sounded her
cry of fury: “I am the Phoenix of the First Kingdom!” Her words boomed into the
surrounding clearing and forest around her, and around her flames erupted in
concentric circles, burning gouges into the ground where only charred debris
remained. Her hair rose from her back, hovering around her shoulders and
tumbled gently through the unseen currents. “I will not be denied!” She snapped
an arm forward, and the area around her was awash in fir, spreading out like a
tidal wave on all sides.
Calming herself once more, Erythis breathed in deeply, the
cool morning air invigorating her. It had been weeks since she had unleashed
her magic, and the experience was one of pure ecstasy. Turning back to her
belongings, she waved a hand dismissively. Her bedroll rolled itself, her food
and drink sequestering themselves to a backpack which, when it attached itself
to her bedroll, donned.
Clad in beige thigh high long boots, black tights, and a
crimson travelling blouse, she looked the part of a noble traveller, and was
once more beginning to feel like it again. Procuring an apple from her bag as
she set off, she held out her other hand and summoned to her side a simple
wooden staff. One might mistake it for a wooden dowel if not for the intricate
runic writing on its length.
Erythis was by no means a child, but nor was she old, and as
such kept a brisk pace, her footfalls light. Her long hair was moved from
behind her back to over her chest, and as she finished her apple, she simply
tossed it to the side. A crunch sounded as the discarded fruit landed.
Returning to the backwoods path she had found the prior day,
she continued southward toward the Gate of the Eternal Sun, though the massive
structure was still not yet visible and would likely not be for another day. She
quickened her pace further, her simple staff clacking on the occasional root or
rock, but otherwise she felt she was silent.
Morning passed to afternoon without reprieve, Erythis would
eat when she found an inn, and not before. As she continued, the trees thinned
considerably, and she could see a clear blue lake in the clearing. Ignoring it,
she followed the path, which took a blind right.
As she turned the corner, she felt a sharp point jab her
chest. A sword was pointed at her chest and its wielder a short distance back.
It was a man clad in dirty leathers and with a shock of short, auburn hair
messily tossed off the side of his head. On his back was a large bow, almost as
large as him, and on his side a sword the twin of the one held against her
bosom. His brown eyes were fierce but his expression calm, almost welcoming.
“Well, isn’t this interesting?” The man spoke, his style of speech distinctly
rural, given the “-uh” sound he seemed to add after every ‘g’.
Her hand stiffened around her staff, but she made no move.
“Isn’t it just?” She replied coyly, giving the man a levelling gaze.
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