Pépin, Elven necromancer and general grumpy-pants.

His eyes unnerve me slightly, and the layers are a jumbled mess.  Not even sure if this is worth finishing up?  But I’m kinda in love with his hair, so…  maybemaybe, if I can find a way that doesn’t take millions upon millions of hours.

What follows is from role-playing nonsense from Carpe Diem featuring Aislinge, Máire’s little girl all grown up and turned half-mad demon-hunter, and Basil.

He was starving. It had been days—two and a half weeks, to be precise—since last he fed. His meals were never particularly filling, perhaps because he fed on those supposed dregs of society: drunks, junkies, half-mad bums, and occasionally those who were all three in one shit-smelling package. Basil hardly considered himself as somehow more worthy than those he killed and definitely did not view his actions as beneficial to society. On the contrary, he was just as base a creature, if not more so, a parasite and a scavenger. He roamed the streets like the jackal he was. As enticing as the steady thrum of the souls sleeping soundly in their homes were, he knew they were not worth the risk. He was weak, and while not quite desperate, if he did not fed soon, he very shortly would be.

The summer night was damp and warm, coating his pallid skin in a sheen of sweat as he hurried from the modest apartment of this neighborhood toward better hunting grounds. Hands deep in the pockets of his worn, tattered jeans, he savored the smooth cool of the switchblade hidden there. He walked with head bowed and eyes focused on the pavement before him. All other senses were attuned to the subtle shifts of the souls around him. There, to his left, were a pair of witches, and so he ducked down an alleyway, quickly putting several blocks distance between he and they. Then, ahead of him, stumbled and shouted a drunken group of anthoi. Groups were far too great a risk and anthoi an even greater one. His mother and half-sister were fond of hunting ’shifters and witches alike. He, on the other hand, was more fond of continuing to breathe. There was no thrill in this, only necessity. Rushing down toward a subway terminal, he followed the familiar, weak thumps of his favored form of prey. On the platform, several drunks and bums snoozed, but the small gaggle of giggling college students made him hesitate. It was impossible to predict how humans would react to an attack on one of their own. He preferred not to chance it.

Both he and the young humans filtered onto the next train that came screeching into the station. As they settled into seats, he moved further down the train toward an appetizing buzz two cars down. Stepping into the car, he winced as the sound reverberated between his ears. A scruffy, strain pile of a human lay stretched out over a bench near the center of the train. Holding his switchblade in hand, he started toward the sleeping man with a practiced calm.

There was no thrill in this, only fear, which manifested itself in a black-eyed woman emerging from the other end of the car. She was cloaked in black with dark red paint on her lips and smokey grey in wide swishes around her eyes. Her brows were a bright shade of auburn, and wisps of the same hue poked out from under the crooked, platinum blond wig she wore. For a moment, he felt sure she was not of this world, but rather a bean sidhe, a goddess of the world before, her powers reduced to the slightest fraction of her former glory, her only function now the serenading of those marked by death. And then he blinked and recognized that predatory gleam in her eyes for what it was. She was no fairy woman, only a female ‘menos.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

—//—

She had been asleep or at least drifting seamlessly in and out of consciousness when that empty hum drew her to stir. For a time, she had followed the mute Russian, but the roar of her guilt and the continued silence of the wind were driving her mad. Wrong—awl ready mad, silly cunt. Such madness made her a danger to all around her. So, she wandered. In the tundra, the friends of that kyn she had killed tracked her down. She let them beat her to a point, but when one of the males tore open her shirt, she broke both his arms and both his legs. Shouldn’t ‘ave been so ‘ard on ‘im. Ye’ wonted it; ye’ always wont it. The others she left unconscious—left fer dead is more like—and wandered on. She managed to stow away with some Faunoi refugees headed back to their homes in France. From there, it was but a hop to England and then a skip to Ireland. She had hoped that there, the birthplace of her family for generations past, she might once more hear her mother’s voice on the wind. But, as so often happened in her life, she was thrown off track, knocked helter-skelter, and lost track of what she had intended. (This time, it had been a beautiful little dark-haired girl who, from a distance, resembled the passionate Phoenix, but she could not remember that now.) Now, she was drowning in that dreadful buzz of life, the cold monotone of her own thoughts, and that dreadful English drawl. Abandoned ye’, they awl ‘ave, just as ye’ abandoned them long ago.

But now that soothing, echo of emptiness filled her as she stalked toward the thin demon. His hunger was writ in every feature from his weary hazel eyes to his skin so deathly wane. A cruel grin curled her lips and darkened her eyes. The florescents glinted off the metal of the blade in his hand, and her eyes flashed like a cat’s as she tilted her head back. Ye’ wont ‘im—ye’ do, ye’ filthy lil’ whore. Jus’ like yer mum. But ‘e’s got t’ earn it, eh? Looking him over, she decided he was not worth much more than five minutes of her time. Jus’ uh quick in’n'out, then? Her lips twisted into a snarl and framed a fiery curse in Old Irish.

The demon turned to run. She rolled her eyes and snorted. Waste of her gods damn time. He actually managed a few meters of distance before she leaped upon his back and knocked him down flat on his belly. Sputtering to breathe, he flipped open the switchblade. She clucked her tongue at the shine of its edges as they darted toward her calf. Grabbing his hand, she slammed it down on the grimy floor. He struggled to keep the blade, but she easily twisted it from his grasp. Shifting to grind one knee between his shoulder blades, she grabbed a fist full of his hair and tugged his head up to snake the blade against his throat.

“Silly demon,” she drawled, ”you hungry?”

“Ah, no, just fancied meself a bit a bit o’ a stroll.”

That gentle roll of his Irish accent off his tongue sent a shiver up from the base of her spine. What uh lil’ tart, gettin’ awl wet a’ th’ sound o’ ‘is voice. Her eyelids had drooped at that disdainful English growl, but they snapped wide open at the softest sound of shifting leather. Just as quickly, the blade slipped into the flesh of his hand and pinned it against the floor. She had expected a terrific yelp of pain; he gave her only a muffled groan. Her fingers were deceptively gentle as they threaded through his hair and traced the lines of his wounded hand.

“Now, now, no lyin’ to Macha…”

For your listening pleasure, here’s a clip of me reading a scene from a silly story that I may or may not finish someday. (Just like the rest? Yea, pretty well.)

Ridiculous men rolling around in the hay, or “The Vessel: Part One”

Without further ado, the scene for today features Máire and those lovely Troll boys.

Máire Gort Luis and Mikha'el ben Ya'aqov'el

Mikha’el and his advisors were in the midst of a meeting.  They stood around the thick circular table as they discussed recent scouting reports and where they should strike next.  Just as Arieh leaned over the map to tap beside the name of one particular settlement, raised voices came from outside the tent.  Two belonged to the guards stationed at the tent entrance, and one, a loud snap of a woman’s voice, belonged to Máire.  Arieh frowned up at Mikha’el while the other advisors exchanged nervous glances.  Mikha’el, chuckling, gestured from Arieh toward the entrance.  The young Troll sighed, but that was his only sign of protest.  No sooner had he exited the tent then the young red-head came stomping in.  Her brows were twisted low over her flashing eyes, and her lips set in a thin line of obvious disapproval.  Shaking his head, Arieh returned behind her.  She stormed right up to Mikha’el and smacked at his arm with the back of her hand.  Mikha’el waved for the advisors to leave and said, “We’ll finish this later.”  As he did so, she smacked him again with her palm and then again with the back of the same hand.  All but Arieh left; the young Troll watched Máire and folded his arms across his chest.

“Who the ‘ell do you think I am?”  Her voice was low and full of gravel.  She used both hands now to beat against his chest.  Her palms slapped loud against his leather jerkin, and the blows undoubtedly hurt her far more than him.

Grabbing her wrists and holding her hands still, Mikha’el arched one eyebrow and tilted his head to stare down at her.  ”You are Máire Gort Luis, daughter of Brigit Luis Tinne, no?” he retorted calmly.

One side of her lips lifted into a snarl. “I dun’ need nor wan’ your servin’ wenches ‘avin’ a damn thing t’ do with the raisin’ of my daughter!”

“Ah.”  One side of his lips lifted into a grin.  ”I shall be sure to remind them that—”

“No,” she growled and struggled to hit him again.  Even in her rage, she was not half as strong as the Chieftain’s son.  ”Order them never to interfere again!”

Mikha’el lifted his eyes to nod to Arieh.  The other Troll frowned; he lifted one eyebrow.  Arieh left then, and Mikha’el, releasing her wrists, slumped back into the chair behind him.  ”It is done,” he sighed as he looked up at her.  She was actually taller than him from his position, though not by much, and if he choose to sit up straight, they would be able to look at each other eye-to-eye.  As it was, he preferred those flashing green eyes glaring down into his yellow pools of calm.

“O, that’s it, is it?” she sneered.  ”A nod to Arieh, and you can fix anything, is that it?”

Grinning slightly, he shrugged.  ”Well, I’m not fixing anything, actually.  It is Arieh—”

She silenced him with a hard slap across his cheek and nose.  Closing his eyes, he inhaled sharply at the lingering sting.  ”Feel any better?” he asked with a drawn-out exhale.  Her only reply was another slap on the same cheek.  His eyes stared up into hers, and only then did he notice the fear hidden behind the flashing.  Gently, his hand reached for her, but she twisted from his touch and turned from him.

Folding her arms over her chest, she huffed, “Just who do you think you are!”

“I know exactly who I am, Lady, and I have never pretended to be anyone else.”

With a sudden jerk, she was leaning down over his face.  Her small hands squeezed uselessly at his thick throat and tugged hard at the grey hair at the back of his scalp.  His upturned face was ever that wild serenity as he pulled her into the chair.  With her knees braced on either side of him, she stared down into his eyes.  Slowly, the tension drained from her hands to be replaced by a trembling.  Gentle in that quaking, they slid down his neck to rest on his chest, and she sat back to rest on his knees.  His eyes remained on hers, even as she blinked at the fold of her thin legs over his.

“Lady,” he muttered as his arm wrapped around her small frame, “it doesn’t have to be—”

The flutter of the tent flaps, one against the other, drew his eyes over to Arieh as the troll returned.  Máire stiffened and pulled herself from his lap.  An ache settled in his chest as again he reached for her hand, and again she twisted to avoid his touch.  After glancing over her shoulder to Arieh, she stared down at Mikha’el for a moment before quickly turning and leaving.  Mikha’el rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and his hand over his eyes.

“That woman is crazed.”

Dropping his hand into his lap, Mikha’el sighed and glared up at Arieh.  At least the troll had the courtesy to wait until Máire was not in the tent and to speak in their native tongue, rather than one the young lady might understand.  ”Is there a problem?” he asked with a rough edge to his words.

Arieh shook his head.  ”Just stating the obvious.  There’s a not a troll woman living, dead, or unborn who would dare interrupt a meeting of the Chieftain’s son and his advisors.”

“Yes,” Mikha’el mumbled with a nod, “and what a damn shame that is.”

This scene was brought you in part by “When the Day Met the Night” by Panic at the Disco.

Grinding her hips against his, she whispered, “Wake up.”

One blue eye immediately opened, and then the other. They slowly moved over her bare skin and left phantom trails of heat in their wake. She held her gloved hands up between them, and he tugged the gloves off and then tossed them aside. After pulling off his own gloves, he pressed his hands, palm to palm, against hers and then intertwined his fingers with hers. Their eyes, hers black in the dim light and his dark blue as raw sapphire, were locked as they smiled at each other.

“I had almost given up hope.”

With a sigh, she squeezed hard at his hands and pulled them up over his head. Pressing them into the furs, she leaned down to brush her breasts against his bare chest. His pupils dilated, and his hips rose to meet hers.

“I said I would come,” she mumbled. “When have I ever given you cause to doubt?”

His lean form stretched and coiled under her as he shifted, a somber look in his eyes. “Vanna never gave me any cause to doubt, but you are no longer Vanna. You are lritrae Lylei Keerlin now.”

“I cannot believe the lrin idas would give me that name.”

Lylei Keerlin—little sex bird. It was as though the whole of the lrin knew that she had been sneaking off with her intended. A deep line of a frown formed between her brows as she sat back from him. Resting her hands on her thighs, she flattened her already thin lips into a straight line. Now that she was thinking about it, it was entirely possible that the whole of the lrin did know.

Their betrothal itself had drawn a good amount of interest. A [bard] asking for the hand of a lritrae jeesib—how could it not? Sirn had not been the first to ask, but the others had been lritrae or [warriors], men who thought they had some common ground with the fierce Vanna, first born daughter of [mother] and [father]. [mother], taking cues from her daughter’s lukewarm reception of the suitors, had refused them each in turn, until Sirn. Even now, some ten odd years after he had first approached her mother, she could still feel that light fluttering filling every part of her being at the memory. For so long, she had admired him from afar. He was nothing like the other lritrae jeesib, nothing like her brothers, nothing like any other man in her lrin. That difference had long fascinated her; that difference coupled with his beauty had inspired all matter of frivolous fantasy. It did not matter to her that he had been born to the Yeka lrin and given to the Keer lrin as part of a peace offering. It did not matter to her that he had come as a slave. She had recognized his worth the first time she saw him dance. The lrin idas had taken longer to notice, but now he was one of the lrina, as proved by the lrin emblem tattooed over his chest—an eagle with its head turned below the meeting of his collar bones, its wings spread across and ending at his shoulders, its tail feathers fanned out on the top of his flat stomach. Even at her most foolish, she had never imagined that he might notice her, that he might want her. She had resigned herself either to being the wife of a fellow lritrae or to never marrying. Then, not long after being accepted into the Keer lrin, he had asked for her hand, and her mother had immediately accepted and even shortened the length of the [engagement] at the notice of her daughter’s excitement. Her sisters had thought her mad to want a [bard] over a lritrae or a [warrior]. They could have husbands with rough hands and bodies worn by war; she wanted Sirn.

As she considered these things, her frown faded to be replaced by a lusty grin.

“It does not surprise me,” he smiled as his hands slowly crept up her knees and thighs to rest on her hips, “but then you’ve always been my little Lylei Keerlin, haven’t you?” She started to lean forward again, but his soft hands grabbed at her shoulders to stop her. “What did surprise me was your complete disregard for your own life.”

This time, the frown replaced the grin as she sighed, “My life is not my own. It belongs to the lrin.”

“Don’t tell me you believe that jorn.”

“Jorn?” she repeated with a touch of indignation and hurt. “How can you say that? You know that is the way of the lritrae—of the lrin. You sing and write songs in praise of our way.”

His thumbs traced small circles on her skin. “There is a time and place for sacrifice, Lylei, but that was not today, on your belly by the fire pit.”

The sound of her name sent a shiver down her spine. “Lrin idas Cosal obviously would agree, but I do not regret my words.” She reached down to follow the lines of the eagle’s wings across his chest. “Although… I would regret dying without having you first.”

There was a smile dancing in his eyes at those words, but not on his face. “You are reckless. I fear that the first time you ride out into battle, it will be your last. It is not enough to have no fear and ready for death. You must be cunning and willing to retreat.”

“Retreat?” Her lips curled into a snarl. “Better to press on until victory can be had.”

His fingers gripped her skin and shook her lightly. “That is foolish pride speaking. A lritrae must think of the lrin and only the lrin. If you wanted glory, you should have sought the mantle of a [warrior].”

“Who are you to lecture me on the ways of a lritrae or war, [bard]? You will never see a field of battle or carry a weapon.”

“Again, spoken like a [warrior]. You have taken the wrong path.” He sat up then and pushed her back from him. “And I was wrong to choose you.”

The furrow of her brows deepened, and her dark eyes searched his face. She did not care for what they found. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, and his full lips narrowed. Tightening her hands into fists, she drew back her lips to bare her gritted teeth at him and hiss, “Coward! Now that I have proven my worth and shown the lrin my might, you are ashamed of me? I thought you were man enough to stand by me. Now I see you are not a man at all, but a useless boy. I wish my mother had never chosen you.” But she had balled her hands into fists to hide their trembling and hissed her words to disguise the wavering in her voice. She could feel her desperation welling in her eyes, and so she turned from him, staring off into the darkness.

“I shall not marry you, only to lose you in the next season.” Grabbing her chin, he made her face him once more. “If the lrin idas knew the pride in your heart, they would not have given you that cloak.”

She batted his hand aside and then slapped him with all her strength across the face. The blow left him laying on the ground. “Who are you to question the will of the lrin idas, [slave]?”

Lifting his head, he wiped the blood from his lip on the back of his hand. “Get out,” he growled. “I shall tell your mother in the morning that I am no longer interested in your hand.”

For a long moment, she sat there, still naked and blinking back tears. This could not be happening! If she had known that by gaining the cloak of the lritrae she would lose Sirn—but, no, she would not have changed a thing. This was her path. He was wrong—he was wrong! He could not mean those words. As the hot tears spilled down her cheeks, she hastily wiped them away.

“Get out,” he repeated, softly, without force.

Yet she lingered. Fighting back the wrenching tightness squeezing at her chest, she lingered and stared into his blue eyes. The hardness had left them, but they were distant, unreadable. Her hands longed for the feel of his smooth skin under them, and her lips for the sweet press of his. Even if their [engagement] was shorter than most, it had still been twelve years. Nearly ten of those years had passed; they were so close, so close now… How could he deny her? How could he turn her away? Dropping her eyes, she could see that, despite her best efforts, her hands were shaking. It was then that she stood and went to collect her cloak.

As she went to do the fasten, gentle hands reached around her to grab her hands and stop her. Sirn leaned his head against her shoulder, and she sighed softly as the tears flowed freely down her face.

“Don’t go,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the fabric of the cloak. “I—I was just upset. I thought I was going to lose you today, and I… I couldn’t bear it, Lylei. Please, forgive me.”

Slowly, she turned and wrapped her arms about his waist. The cloak fell from her shoulder as she kissed at his forehead. “Only if you will forgive me as well. I did not mean what I said… you are not a useless boy; you are the only man for me.”

The light touch of his fingers danced over her stomach and up her back. “Come back to bed, my sweet Lylei Keerlin.”

She let him lead her back to the furs and laid down under him. Rolling her hips up against him, she sighed as he kissed at the corner of her mouth. His fingers trailed down her arms then back up and across her chest, just above her breasts. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders and tangled her fingers in the length of his hair. Her legs spread for him, and she could feel the press of his hardness through his pants against her body.

Shivering, she moaned softly, “Take me, Sirn.”

“You know I can’t, Lylei,” he mumbled against her neck as he left little kisses there. “Your mother may shorten the [engagement] now that you have passed the test… I shall ask her if we can marry in the spring.”

One of her hands slipped down his back and side before working its way between them. It rubbed at him as she panted, “I cannot wait that long. Tonight, Sirn, please.”

His hips moved in rhythm with her hand, and his lips split so that he could bite at her neck. Still, he shook his head and groaned, “No, I can’t… I can’t… but I will not send you back to your tent unsatisfied, Lylei.”

She wanted to press him again, to demand it, but then a hand was squeezing at her breast and a finger tracing up the line of her offered sex. Arching her back and bucking her hips, she decided she could wait just a little longer.

When she slipped through the tent flips of the tent she shared with her sisters, the pale light of dawn was brightening the horizon of the plain, and lrina were beginning to stir in their tents. Her sisters, Mina and Parci, were cuddled together, still sleeping soundly. Keerlin discarded her cloak and settled on her back beside them. Just as she was closing her dark eyes with thoughts of catching a bit more sleep, warm fingers pinched at her shoulder.

“Good morning, Lylei,” said Parci with grogginess drawing out her words.

“You can’t call me that. Only he can call me that.”

Mina yawned, “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Lritrae Lylei Keerlin,” Parci grumbled as she sat up.

Keerlin opened her eyes to frown at Parci. Her dark curls were matted, and she was slowly working her short fingers through the tangle. Her clear brown eyes stared at her older sister as frowns and winces flickered over her features. Mina, between them with the straight length of her black hair half-covering her face and matching eyes, tugged the blanket up to her rosy cheeks and curled under it with a soft sigh. Parci had been born twenty years after Keerlin, but only a year and a season separated her and Mina. [Father] had died just a season after Mina’s birth. His two youngest daughters had no memory of him. They were soft, gentle creatures, like [Mother], so unlike their proud sister that one might think they were not related, but the similarities in their features and builds confirmed that they were. They all had [Mother’s] small, upturned noses and narrow jaw, [Father’s] high brow and large eyes, but Parci and Mina had [Mother’s] plump, inviting lips while Keerlin had [Father’s] thin lips.

“Will you move into the tent of other unwed lritrae?” Mina sighed.

“I may.”

Her brow and nose crinkled. “You should stay with us. [Mother] is sure to let you marry in the spring, and they are sure to catch sneaking off with Sirn.”

“Did he give in to you, Keerlin?” Parci asked as she continued to struggle with her hair.

“I bet he did,” Mina grinned. “After what happened during the [testing] today, he must have been upset.”

Keerlin sighed and ran a hand over her bare scalp. “He didn’t, but he was upset… we fought.”

“You always fight,” Parci grunted and then crawled over to find a comb. She sat with her back to her sister’s as she worked it through her hair and said, “You’re both too proud for your own good. Seems the only thing that keeps you two together is your desire for each other.”

“They love each other,” Mina smiled. “Don’t you?”

Closing her eyes, Keerlin sighed softly, “Yes.”

In the dark of her eyes, Sirn’s face was grinning at her with eyes full of longing. They had never said the words to each other, but it was not the way of the lrin for [intendeds] to be as close as they were. Those words and that one final act that Sirn continued to deny her were the last barriers between them.

“Well, I hope you do marry in the spring,” Parci stated in a her typical detached manner. “I am tired of wanting for my turn.”

“Don’t talk that way,” Mina whimpered. She pushed aside the warmth of the blanket then to cuddle up next to Keerlin and kiss at her cheek. “I shall miss you so, [sister].” With a sigh, she whined, “And I do not understand why Parci is in such a rush to leave me. Am I not a good [sister]?”

Chuckling, Keerlin tousled her hair and turned to kiss her forehead. “Don’t be silly, Mina. We will be together forever—we are [sisters].”

Mina smiled softly, but something in her brown eyes told Keerlin that her youngest sister was not convinced. Parci tossed the comb over at them. Keerlin’s gloved fingers snatched it from the air and twirled it. Arching a brow at her sister, Keerlin considered her eyes darkened by a frown and pouting lips.

“Mina has been having those dreams again,” she mumbled.

Keerlin grunted her understanding as she ran her fingers through Mina’s hair. “Would you like me to comb your hair, [little sister]?”

Nodding, Mina slowly sat up. Keerlin followed suit and gently turned and pulled Mina so that she sat with her back to Keerlin in her lap. Her shoulders were slumped and head bowed as Keerlin began to work the comb through the snares in her hair. Parci crawled back over to begin to braid the straight lengths already free of tangles.

“I would never let anything happen to you, [little sister],” Keerlin said.

Her voice was soft, low, but there was no denying the quiet rage in her words. Mina had been having dreams for years of ootein with skin the color of bone, eyes of fire and death, and strange magics. They came upon the lrin suddenly and left nothing in their wake. That in itself was enough to terrify any lrina, but that the ootein in Mina’s dream took and defiled those they did not kill… that removed any sliver of fear from Keerlin and replaced it with fury.

“But what if… what if something did happen?”

The words came as a quavering mewl, and the hands of both Keerlin and Parci paused at their work. Keerlin could feel Parci glancing at her, but her dark eyes never left Mina. Wrapping her strong arms around Mina, Keerlin squeezed her tight and whispered into her hair, “If anything should ever happen, I would come for you, and I would avenge you. Any who dare to harm you will rue that day.”

Mina’s hands rested over Keerlin’s. “I’m being foolish,” she mumbled, “but the dreams… they are so vivid.”

“They are only dreams,” Parci reminded her gently and smiled.

Keerlin nodded, though even now, she doubted the lrin idas’ decision that there was nothing more to Mina’s dreams than childish fear. The world extended beyond this plain, beyond the forests, beyond the mountains, beyond the desert, beyond the sea. It was difficult to imagine that the world was that vast, but Keerlin had accepted that it was after the appearance of those ootein traders working their way east across their lands. Before then, Keerlin had always thought the ootein nothing more than a story told to frighten children into behaving, but having seen them with her own eyes, there was no denying the reality. She had no desire to frighten her sisters any further, and so Keerlin kept these thoughts to herself.

Spring had never been so slow in coming. As she rode on Gir’s bare back with Rena prancing along behind him, Keerlin was ultimately convinced that the lrin idas were putting off the journey to their spring village just to spite her. They had been so quick to accept her mother’s appeal to shorten the [engagement], but now that seemed only more torturous. Onlan found her increasing agitation all too amusing, as did her brothers and the other lritrae. Sirn, on the other hand, found it increasingly difficult to refuse her, and so he had denied her entry to his tent for the rest of the season. Rather than easing the tension, that denial only worsened it. Keerlin struggled to find ways of dealing with it. Sparring with the lritrae appeared a simple enough solution, but after she managed to break a jeesib’s jaw, that was no longer an option. She could not help but smile at the memory of Onlan’s reaction to that. He had been torn between disappointment at her lack of control and pride at having trained her. It had been his suggestion that she assist the [hunters], and, so far, that had proved a safe distraction.

“I would still rather be in his bed,” she sighed as her eyes lazily scanned the snowy plain. Rena nickered softly, as if laughing at Keerlin. Turning back to glare at the mare, Keerlin fought the grin tugging at her lips. “Well, no since lying, least not to either of you, eh?”

A bitter wind howled across the plain, and Keerlin drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. It ripped right through her fur-lined tunic and pants. Shivering, she leaned forward to hug Gir’s neck. The stallion’s woolly coat was dusted with snow and cold against her cheek. Not as cold as the wind, however, and so she remained laying against him as he walked through the snow. They had seen no sign of prey all day, and she was past ready to return to the warmth of her tent. The horses were well aware of this, but they also knew as much as she hated braving this cold, she hated returning empty-handed more. Again, her eyes searched the plain for some indication that anything yet lived in this barren landscape of white and grey. Her eyes grazed over dark shapes on the horizon before snapping back. Drawing down her brows, she squinted at them. They were nothing more than five specks at the crest of a hill. No telling just what they were, but Keerlin squeezed her thighs against Gir’s sides. He started toward them at an easy trot.

As they drew closer, more specks came to join the five. With great reluctance, Keerlin dismounted and motioned for the horses to wait. Rena whinnied, soft and nervous, and Keerlin rubbed at her neck and kissed at her nose before leaving them. She walked low and slow, letting the snow covering her cloak disguise her approach, and beneath her feet, the mix of snow, ice, and dead grass crunched softly. Her eyes remained on the dark shapes, now twenty in number. She froze when her eyes recognized the shapes for what they were: men on horseback. She was still not close enough to see if they were other lrin or ootein, but it did not matter. She had to get back to the village and tell the lrin idas. With only that thought in her head, she turned and struggled through the snow as quickly as she could. Distant shouts were drawn by the wind to her ears, and she wet her lips to whistle loudly. Gir came charging through the snow with Rena neighing and picking her way behind him. The soft wisps of arrows followed Keerlin as she reached for the stallion’s mane. One lodged itself in her shoulder and another in her lower back as she pulled herself up. The stallion did not wait for her to settle properly on his back before galloping off. Pulling her bow from her back, she took an arrow from the quiver at her hip and watched over her shoulder, through the haze of snow as the men spurred their horses after her. She drew back an arrow and let it fly. One of the men fell from his horse, and more arrows whizzed past her, one landing in Gir’s rump. The stallion snorted and shook his head, but his pace did not slow.

“We can’t lead them back to the village,” she muttered as she drew back another arrow. But there was nothing between them and the village—only empty plain and rolling hills. They would never lose the pursuers in all that open emptiness, and they were outnumbered. But perhaps—

“Rena!” she shouted. “Run ahead. Find Onlan.”

Word count: 3893
Words to date: 6215

“Your mother and father no longer want you—the lrin no longer wants you!”

It was all part of the ritual. All the same, her heart ached at the words. “It does not matter,” she said in her loud, clear voice. “They need me.” She opened her brown-black eyes then and grabbed the knife laying before her. A small crowd had gathered by this time, and her dark eyes found Sirn among them. He was smiling gently at her, and she could only stare back at him with impassive eyes despite the fluttering in her gut and the spark of desire in her breast.

“Who could ever need one so worthless and helpless?”

She lifted the knife and began to saw off the thick waves of her hair. Biting hard at her tongue, she continued to stare into Sirn’s blue eyes. Concern flickered over his features, but his smile did not fade. “Only [the Goddess] can judge my worth. It is Her lifeblood that sustains me, and with that gift, I am made strong. With that gift, I shall protect my brothers and sisters.” Her hair fell to the ground in clumps.

“Fear is in your heart. You cannot protect us.”

Cutting the last of her waves, she shouted, “Fear has no lodging in any part of my being. I welcome Death, should she come for me. My life is not my own. It belongs to the lrin.” She slid the blade over her scalp. It painfully scrapped away what remained of her hair. And my heart belongs to him, she thought as the briefest of smiles blossomed on her young face.

“Words are meaningless without action.”

She stood then and turned to face Onlan. His honey brown eyes were cold and hard as he stared down at her. Gripping the knife, she flared her nostrils and let deep, even breaths take the tension from her muscles. She could feel the weight of her lrin’s eyes on her, but the feeling only steeled her courage. With a roar, she slashed at him. He caught her wrist, but she pressed against him with all her strength. As the blood brought a trickle of blood from his throat, she punched at his stomach. Grunting, he threw his fist at the side of her head. Her vision exploded into a dizzying twirl. In a flurry of limbs, of punches, of kicks, of bites, the two fell to the ground and rolled and grappled. As they fought, the cries of the lrin enveloped them. She found herself swept up in their voices, in their excitement, and she lost her head. She ended up on her belly under Onlan. His knee ground between her shoulder blades, and his fists lit the back of her skull with painful bursts of red and white. Where was the knife? Her fingers sought its leather-wrapped handle but found only soft earth. Where—? And then its cold edge was at her throat.

“Do it,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Spill my blood.”

Shame burned in her veins. All those years of training, but she was still not strong enough! Even then, no fear was in her. If this was her end, then she would face it. To die at her master’s hand would be a good death. To die here among her lrin was even better.

“Enough.” The word was faint, barely audible above the shouts of the lrin.

“Lrin idas Cosal speaks!” yelled Onlan. His voice was a rumbling boom that seemed to reverberate in her bones. “Take heed!”

The crowd fell silent. Her dark eyes lifted from the dirt to stare into the wrinkled face of the lrin idas. “I accept this death,” she said simply. Her voice was soft but even; her dark eyes shone with determination. There was no fear in her.

“No!”

For a moment, she glanced over to Sirn who struggled against the men holding him back. Her expression did not falter. As she looked back to Cosal, he nodded. “That is not necessary. Stand.”

Onlan stood. Rolling over, she stared up at him with the high arches of her brows drawn down over her eyes. He offered her his hand, and she took it to stand beside him. Sirn shouted the name that was no longer hers, and she bowed her head. Again, shame was hot within her. She could not bear the weight of the lrin’s eyes now. She had failed, she had been denied death, and now her intended—! She could not even bring herself to think the words they shamed her so.

“You have proven your words today,” the lrin idas announced as he rested a hand on her bare, bloody head. “You are now and forever lritrae Lylei Keerlin dec Keer lrin.”

A faint blush touched her cheeks at the sound of her new name. She did not have long to consider its meaning, however, as the whole of her lrin was shouting in jubilation and Onlan throwing the heavy cloak of a lritrae over her bare shoulders. A faint frown darkened her face.

“I failed,” she mumbled as Onlan fastened the cloak.

He rubbed at her head. “You lost,” he said and then leaned his forehead against hers, “but you did not fail.” Her frown lingered, but he grinned broadly at her with eyes full of pride.

“I should have won.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Got careless,” she grumbled. “Lost my head…”

Tapping the handle of the knife against her chest, he said, “You’ve never been good at close combat. You’re strong, but not stronger than I. Give you a bow, a sword, or spear, and you would best me every time.”

“Maybe,” she grinned softly.

“That’s my girl.”

“No—she’s mine.”

They turned to Sirn, her intended, as he strode over to them. A crooked grin tugged at his lips, but his eyes were etched with worry and anger. Onlan stepped back as he approached. Keerlin appeared small and lean next to tall, broad-muscled Onlan, but next to Sirn, she was the large one. He was a full head shorter than her with the lithe frame of a dancer. His eyes were a blue like the morning sky, and his light brown hair was fine and straight, both uncommon among the lrin. He held a pair of gloves in his thin hands, and she extended her hands to him. As he tugged them onto her her hands, he stared deep into her eyes. Her eyes danced over the familiar lines of his face—the high curve of his brows, the lines of his cheeks, the thin crook of his nose, and the inviting bow of his lips. Her thin lips ached for them. Sirn glanced over to Onlan and then back to her as his hands slipped up her arms to squeeze at them before brushing against the swell of her breasts. Biting at her tongue, she leaned into his touch.

“Tonight?” he whispered.

She nodded slightly. Dropping his arms, he stepped back from her and then lifted his hand. His thumb brushed against her lips, and she kissed it eagerly. With a slight bow to Onlan, he walked off. Her eyes, full of longing, watched him disappear into his tent. Onlan chuckled and draped an arm over her shoulders.

“Shall we find your horses?”

At once, her desire for Sirn was forgotten, and her heart leaped into her throat. She tried to swallow it down, but it remained, hammering there. Words could not slip past it, so she only nodded. Onlan threaded his fingers between hers and lead her out of the village toward the herd. Many of the lrin followed them at a polite distance.

“Lylei Keerlin,” he said, and the blush returned to her cheeks. “It suits you well.”

“Father would not be pleased.”

“Fathers are hard to please.” His hand squeezed at hers. “Will you marry soon?”

Her blush deepened. “In the spring—I hope.”

“He is a good man. Your mother choose well.”

She smiled. “Very well,” she murmured. “He will be a great husband and father.”

At the edge of the herd, the lrin stopped, and he released her hand. The horses lifted their heads and flared their nostrils as she walked out among them. Her eyes trailed over the stallions and mares. None approached her. She paused in the center of the herd and waited. Moments passed, and with every moment, the pound of her heart seemed to grow louder. It became a deafening roar in her ears, and she was sure that the whole herd and perhaps even her master and the lrin could hear it. Still, none approached her. Kneeling in the tall grass, she shut her dark eyes and focused on her breathing. In—out—in—out… Soon, the only sounds in her ears were that of the horses stirring around her and the wind sweeping across the plain. At the edge of her consciousness, a presence stirred. She knotted her hands into fists and tried calling out to the presence. Slowly, it drew closer, and as it did, another joined it. Still focusing on her breathing, she waited. The soft touch of a nose brushed against her head, and she opened her eyes to stare up at the black eyes of a stallion. Stamping at the ground, he bowed his head. She stood and scratched at his ears. Walking down his side, she let her hand trail down his strong neck and side. His broad shoulders were level with her eyes. Dense fur, a deep chestnut in color, covered his rippling muscles and darkened black at his massive hooves and nose. His mane and tail, both thick and long, were also black.

“Are you mine?” she asked softly.

A mare whinnied and came galloping up to them.

“He is yours, then?” she said with a grin to the mare.

She was similar to the stallion in coloration, but a blaze of white covered her face. Her hooves were dainty and left little clouds of dust as she stamped at the ground. Where the stallion was broad, thick muscle, she was thin, lean muscle. She threw her head up and shook her dark mane. Keerlin walked toward the mare with cautious feet and pulled the gloves from her hands. The mare flared her nostrils and pranced a bit back and forth. Keerlin stopped, holding her hands out to the mare. Flicking her ears back and forth, the mare’s brown eyes seemed to consider the bald youth standing before her. With a snort, the stallion walked over to her and began to nuzzle and nibble at her. Still, Keerlin stood with her hands extended. After a long moment, the mare slowly approached Keerlin and sniffed at her hand before rubbing her nose against it. Keerlin lifted her hand to pet up the mare’s nose and work her fingers through the coarse hair of the mare’s fetlock. Again, the stallion approached and nudged his nose against Keerlin’s cheek. Smiling, she turned to blow lightly his nose. He neighed and dropped his nose to push against her hip. Keerlin took this as an invitation to ride and let her hands slip over the dense fur of his body to tangle in his mane. Pulling herself up, she mounted him and settled into the curve of his back. His coat was rough under her bare skin. She tugged her gloves back on and then leaned forward to pet his neck with a sigh.

“I felt your presence,” she mumbled, “but I thought a lritrae could hear her horses’ thoughts.”

The stallion flicked his ears back as if considering her words and then whinnied at the mare. Well, perhaps it was not as simple as that. After all, the thoughts of the horse must be quite different from a Zingaro. She began to work her fingers through the tangles in the stallion’s mane and frowned slightly.

“What are your names?”

No sooner had she asked the question than her mind was filled with two images—the symbols of strength and beauty. The vision left her dizzy, and she clutched at the stallion’s mane as her spinning head threatened to send her falling off. When the horizon was again level, she laughed softly. Yes, quite different from the thoughts of a Zingaro.

“Gir,” she said softly, and the stallion again flicked his ears back. She turned to the mare. “And Rena.” The mare neighed softly and walked over to rub her nose against Keerlin’s thigh. She reached down to scratch at Rena’s ear with a smile. “And I am Lylei Keerlin.” As she said her name, she still felt that slight twist of embarrassment, but it did not reach her cheeks. Onlan was right; it did suit her.

Word count: 2322
Words to date: 2322

The second summer session is in full swing. I cannot wait until August when I can finally have a bit of a break.

Also been working some on an entry for a contest on deviantArt. Will be posting my entry here as well as in my deviantArt gallery when it is completed.