OC October, Oct 1st

I saw a challenge on Tumblr, to draw one OC every day in October. Since I am a writer, I will be writing a 400-600 word scene for one OC each day in October. Here is the Character for October 1st...

Character: Amelia, the Witch-Queen of Volfa

Setting: Sanguine

484 words

“Your Witchly-ness?”

Amelia’s page stood before the throne, which had since become a desk of sorts with a tablet set up on the left arm rest, where stacks of historical and soul-spell tomes piled up past her seated height. And parchments and bound sheafs were organized on the table too, in neat piles, clustered around these piled books. “Yes?” Amelia asked.

Her page bowed stiffly, and only by a few degrees. He was a short boy, perhaps from the south, where the Surzians crossed freely and mixed their blood with the Kelvi. “Your Highness,” he said. “Another missive from Cornelia, this time in a voice-stone.”

“I’ll hear it,” Amelia said, extending one hand to accept it, palm open and up.

The page stepped up to her throne, bowed again, and dropped the heavy, opalesque stone in Amelia’s palm before stepping backward. Amelia closed her eyes, to cut through the initial haze as the stone organized its recorded sounds. And then Cornelia’s contralto tone filled the room, rich and commanding.

“Amelia,” Cornelia said. “How goes the occupation? I trust things are in order? I believe the Kelvish in your lands have submitted more or less, if your past reports were accurate.”

Amelia held her tongue, the temptation to reply always there. Cornelia’s insistence on calling Amelia’s sovereignty an occupation cut deep.

“I propose a new imperative,” Cornelia said. “I have a host heading for the new Kelvish state, Vendra, along the northern coast. We intend a swift victory. And your territories would make for a swift passage, and a safe passage.”

She wants to make her power known. Amelia thought bitterly. To have her own soldiers walking along my streets. A threat? A reminder of whom we--I--used to swear fealty to?

“Once our incursion in Vendra has ended,” Cornelia said. “We will return once again through your territory. At this time, you will offer supplies and medical assistance to our hard-bitten troops. We will repay you with protection, should Volfe find itself threatened by Lune or, I forbid, Surzia. I will end this message here, but my envoy will have brought a more detailed assessment of our passage, which roads we intend to take--”

So she has scouted my lands already? With spies, if I did not know of them.

“--and where we will set up camps, when we need them.” Cornelia paused. “You will find my army has grown since the Kelvish wars, even with the defectors that joined you. No ill will is intended by this statement. But respect us--you will find there is much to respect--and we will respect you.”

Amelia set the stone on the table beside her, and looked toward her page. “I will prepare a written response,” Amelia said, reaching for a sheaf of unmarked parchment. “First, I shall outline the ways in which I find Cornelia’s requests reasonable, and the ways in which I must regretfully deny them.”

Mournful Song

Mournful Song called out to Shinju like a choir. Crouched in the frosted underbrush, Shinju watched the iced branches and ferns for a flash of Mournful Song’s segmented scales.

Though fog had obscured her vision, Shinju had once spotted the beast from the towers at the edge of town. Slinking away with a cow half ripped to strips and ribbons, red smears left in the snow. Mournful Song’s breath misting from under its mandibles. This mist would not be seen, Shinju knew, with the fog. But its scales and it legs’ erratic movement propelling it forward were unmistakable, printed in her mind and dreams.

And now, from the brush, she waited. Mournful Song’s voice carried well, hovering all around.

“Why are you here?” Mournful Song sang. “So filled with fear?”

Shinju took a deep breath, sucking in air slowly. Do you really know I’m here?

“I won’t take you too,” it sang, “unless your heart’s untrue.”

There, just behind the roots of an oak, half curled, its stalks raised over the edge. Like twigs, which Shinju had mistaken as such. It was a half a hundred paces, too far of a distance to sneak, not with Mournful Song so aware. “For months,” Shinju said, “you have culled our livestock, and almost took a child.”

“The child remained unharmed,” Mournful Song sang, its stalks adjusting. “Does that not quell your alarm?”

“Beasts will defend themselves,” Shinju said, creeping out from her cover. Her boots crunched through the icy layer atop the snow. Lowering the long-blade of her spear, she kept her pace steady and rhythmic. “Some fight, and some pretend to speak.”

“Leave me be,” Mournful Song sang. It crawled out and over the root and half curled around the trunk of the oak. Its head lifted and pointed toward her, mandibles clicking, forelegs curling and uncurling in anticipation.  “Leave me be!”

“Leave your belly up and I’ll be swift,” Shinju said, “merciful, even.”

The song turned sharp, and Mournful Song rushed forward, leaping from the tree as it unfurled.

“Light of Light, guide my spear,” Shinju whispered, planting her feet as it barreled toward her. She waited until the tip of her spear grazed its forehead’s plate, and stepped aside. But the tail curved back around and, though she leapt, it slammed into her ankles and she tumbled to the snow.

Shinju scrambled to her feet, tightening her grip on the spear as the tail came lashing back. But now, the underside faced toward her, and she aimed the blade for the center. It dug into the softer flesh even as the tail curled around her. Mournful Song cried out, and the haft of the spear broke.

Shinju grabbed the haft closer to the blade and pushed against the center of the tail, as the legs scrambled and thrashed against her, the tips of the legs pressing against her leathern cuirass. She grunted, cutting further up, as steaming ichor poured out over her hands.

Mournful Song’s pressure relented, as she carved up toward the clicking and sawing mandibles. She braced one foot against the side of the beast’s headplate and drove the blade into the gap there. It turned its head and the blade bent as blood streamed and pulsed from the wound. Just as Mournful Song began to dig at her arms, its mandibles slowed and stopped, and its frenetic breathing slowed.

Shinju crawled out from the coiled tail and stepped down into the melting snow. She turned back around, and shook her hands, the hot blood spraying off from the fingertips of her gloves. She waited, watching the softly breathing beast.

“Goodnight,” it said. “Goodnight.”

For a few minutes, Shinju leaned against the nearest oak, checking her arms. Her bracers had been cut and ripped but Mournful Song had not cut her skin. Once Mournful Song grew still, Shinju approached.

Shinju reached across its head and sawed the blade back and forth until she freed it. Though it had bent, it could be repaired, she hoped. She stared at the silent beast a moment longer before turning, stalking off toward home.

rough stuff -- Kveta the Kelvish Girl 3

They arrived in Tyere earlier than Mira had said -- mid afternoon -- and before they’d realized they’d reached it. The thick patches of brush and vines grew dense, and the springy grassy ground grew tough and hollow sounding. A wooden walkway seemed to emerge as they continued, and the rotting sides of houses appeared from the overgrowth.

“You said there were spiders here,” Mira whispered, as they came upon a street less completely choked by the vegetation, enough to reveal the fronts of the houses along it.

“There... should be spiders,” Kveta said, trying to recall the campfire rumors.

Mira stopped in front of a door, the wooden frame cracked and almost twisted. “But, no webs,” she said, gesturing around them before trying the doorknob. When the door remained shut, she leveled her sword and pierced the gap between the door and the frame, where the lock held the door in place. She thrust, caving the contraption, leaving it locked but detached from the door, and opening the door. Mira stepped through.

Holding her breath, her rifle tight in her hands, Kveta followed Mira.

rough stuff -- Kveta the Kelvish Girl 2

Kveta followed in Mira’s footsteps as they traveled along the river. Mosquitos and gnats filled the air, though Kveta found it no longer bothered her after so many days spent in the Wash. Every hour they walked, Kveta felt they’d walked a hundred kilometers from Risto. A hundred kilometers further from her family.

Mira stopped them on a flat slab of dark granite beside the river. Kveta sat, facing the gently flowing water. When Mira sat next to her, Mira had taken off her armor, leaving on a surprisingly civilian jacket and khakis underneath. The image of those that took zamarkite emblazoned in Kveta’s mind made little room for any commonness, and yet Kveta realized Mira had likely been as her, once. Barefoot, Mira dangled her feet into the water.

Clearing her throat, Kveta asked, “Are you a long way from home?”

Mira nodded. “Twice as many leagues as from here to Lun.”

rough stuff -- Kveta the Kelvish Girl

Kveta cowered underneath the branch as the beast stalked overhead. It was as alike a dragon as she had ever seen, like those in the books at the library in Ristor, scaly and fork tongued. Though it walked with a limp, its body was the size of carriage, and its teeth jutted out as long as swords. She clutched her rifle tight to herself, shaking.

And then, a snap near to her. A flash of steel and the beast roared, staggering as it turned to face the new aggressor. Kveta caught only glimpses of the huntress, her armor black and red, her sword nearly as tall as she was. The huntress flashed the blade as though to dazzle the beast and then held it up at shoulder’s height.

Howling, the beast charged, swinging its forelimbs, alternating with each step.

The huntress stood her ground until she leapt up. Kveta could see little else than a spray of the beast’s sour green blood, coloring the air as the huntress landed on the neck. Though the beast’s head had been cleaved in two, from nose to skull, the huntress planted her sword just under the base of the beast’s skull, and twisted her blade.

A Prologue for a Quest - Commission

The courtyard stretched back from the house a few hundred yards. Taika and Laika sat, hunched in their furs near the far end, while Father Jarvinem sat off to the side. They were far enough out that the warmth pumped up from the underground vents couldn’t well reach them, and so their breath frosted in the air.

Echoes of Old Kingdoms - 00

Still burdened with a headache, her stomach uneasy, Belka stumbled out into the harsh morning light. “What?” She asked, blinking. “Who?” Someone had been knocking.

A pair of soldiers with sheathed swords and the royal insignia painted on their breastplates stood on the landing outside of her apartment. “Are you Belka…?” Trying to read her last name from the sheet of paper in his left hand.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“You are hereby placed under arrest,” the leftmost soldier said.