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A Bitter Taste [P]; {Lyssia & Arma}
Topic Started: Sat Sep 12, 2015 8:41 pm (1,189 Views)
Lyssia
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A village, at long last. How many days had it been, then, since she had come to this alien world, this place called Chaon? She no longer could recall the breadth of days spent traipsing through an unrelenting wilderness that had scarcely known the hand of civilized people. It had been long, though. She wore the journey on her frame, an unrelieved statement of hardship and trial.

Lyssia moved with the mechanical walk of someone whom had died and was unwilling to admit it. As she entered the village - the first such she had come across - she could only stare in blank wonder and mild trepidation. Her eyes gleamed fever-bright, which was probably because she was with fever by this point, her flesh emaciated and withered from long days and nights spent traveling a land that was uncaring of her lack of preparedness. Her clothes were little more than tatters, barely holding to any convention of modesty. White silk had been torn and stained with gray, green, and black mud all the way to the tops of her withered breasts, along with blood - not hers, Goddess be thanked. Her arms bore scratches and the remnants of hundreds of insect bites, some fresh, most old and fading. The same story for her legs, poorly concealed by tattered skirts. Her eyes were rimmed in red, haunted; her hair ruddy and lank, filled with the detritus of the forest floor, caked in mud.

All in all, she looked lost and alone. And she was, both lost and alone in a world she did not know.

The village was a small thing, perhaps a few hundred people living in close proximity. The road she had followed out of Norwood had been little more than a dirt track to begin with - a jumped up game trail. As she had followed it, hope stirring deep in the ashes of her heart, it had broadened, becoming ever more pronounced.

And here, it widened into a dirt track that ran through the middle of three dozen or so wooden homes, foundations of flat rock. The scent of wood smoke hung heavy on air that was alive with birdsong, and the quiet, muted murmur of voices from a building at the far end of the street. An Inn, barely deserving the name, was the source of that. Of the other places she could see, most were residences with small yards in front of them. Wash hung out to dry in the early autumnal sun, and a few women tended them, pulling down laundry while others added to the lines.

One and all they turned to look at the new arrival, their brows wrinkling in distaste and, perhaps, a touch of unease.

Lyssia halted in the middle of the road, and blinked. There was no recognition from any of these people, and they looked...different. Hers was a world where humans did not exist, or at least not in the corner of the world where Damasc lay. They looked...so close to her in appearance, minus the mundane hair and eyes, and the rounded ears. But she could sense from here that the magic that should have flickered like life was dead in them, or if not dead then greatly muted.

And, perhaps more daunting, was the fact that none of them recognized her. Surely a princess of the Royal line would be much more widely known! The look in their eyes was anything but awe at being so close to her presence - as she would expect. If anything, it was the look reserved for a child that has played in the mud and is now tracking it all across the freshly swept and mopped floors. Something of that managed to reach her and, inexplicably, made her angry. When she started moving again, it was with a stately grace that hardly fit her appearance - the grace of the court, of a girl who had been amongst nobility and royalty all her life.

Rags could do little to hide her carriage, even if all of these people would probably dismiss it as nothing more than madness or eccentricity. Unknown to her, there were no villages in the direction she had come from. Only forest slowly yielding to marshland, and marshland that remained largely uninhabited and uninhabitable. After all, who would want to deal with clouds of biting bugs every single day.

She glided down the street, bare feet sore, legs as dirty as her clothes. She came, in time, to the door of the inn, and mounted its steps. Pushing the door open, she made to step inside. Finally, a chance to get clean, and eat something! Her stomach growled embarrassingly loud as she stepped through, the smell of smoke, food, and beer ripe in the air.

The room beyond was crowded, or at least was crowded by local standards. All of the faces she could see looked strange to her, and she could sense nothing of the kindred spirits she would expect close to home. It was disquieting, but a certain level of stubborness clung to her. Even as she stepped through the door, a large man wearing a white apron tied around his bulk looked up and, frowning, stepped around the counter at the far end of the room.

"Excuse me, um, miss," he said as he approached, eyeing her up and down with clear disapproval in his eyes. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Even though she hardly felt like doing so, she smiled and met the man's eyes, standing a little straighter even though it hurt to do so. Yes, there just so happens to be. I need a room for the night, and something to eat. She paused for a moment, and then noticed his wrinkled nose. And a bath. she added, her eyes flashing dangerously.

He caught himself as he nodded, in particular at the last - to him, she smelled ripe, of sweat and sour mud - but said nothing at first. Another direct, insulting glance at her attire, and he frowned. "I'll need to see the color of your coin first, miss."

You refer to me as my Lady, sir. Alas, I have no coin on my person. I was...rather rudely cast out of the palace some time ago. Quite frankly, I have no idea where I am, or how to get back home. Once I do, though, you shall be fully reimbursed, plus some extra for rendering aid to a daughter of the Line.

The man frowned. "Well, if you want to call yourself a Lady, by all means do so. But," he began, and his eyes went to her own. Hard, uncompromising eyes. "But, if you wish to have the service of my humble rooms, you have to pay. First."

Lyssia gaped at him. I am a Princess of Damasc, you...man. Do you think I would carry coin with me? I shouldn't even be here! she snapped at him, and was surprised to see that he didn't flinch back from that. If anything, his stance grew more determined, the set of his features more stern.

"Woman, I have never heard of a place called Damasc in all of my days. Clearly you are having some kind of problems - I don't really care. If you have coin, you may happily use my facilities to clean your soiled self up, and rest. But I see no coin in your hand, and you have said as much yourself. No money, no room. I don't have time to argue about this - please leave. Come back when you find some coin." With that, he pushed her towards the door and, catching her by the grimy collar of her dress, pulled the door open and then pushed her back out into the street. She didn't miss him unsureptisiously wiping his hand off as he slammed the door shut in her face.

Lyssia stared at the wooden planks just in front of her face for a long, long time. And then she turned, and began to walk disconsolately back into the street, heading out of town with tears running down her face.
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Armorhide
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Arma was a Black Knight, feared, reviled, respected, and somehow loved all in one. He wore black adamantine armor with a long red cape that stopped just short of the ground, his armor was made in the style of his homeland, the helm was taller and made to hide his face, but his eyes could be clearly seen, dull golden eyes that seemed to cool the fires of an enemy's rage. He had taken up the mantle of the Black Knight after finding a dragon's hoard and winning the armor through trials of strength and cunning... it also helped the dragon in question was female and Arma was of the High Human race, they were seen as abnormally beautiful creatures, and among them Arma was considered one of the most attractive men.

He walked into the village, he had done them a favor by killing some bandits for the promise of food, a room, and a bit of coin for his trouble. He looked at the people who were either glaring at the young woman and shaking their heads in disgust... it angered him. On his left hip a mace, on his right a bag filled with coin, on his back a round adamantine shield that could cover his entire upper body. He stopped in front of the young lady and offered an armored hand, "Okay?" He was a man of few words... very few words, to be specific five words.

Before he could try and communicate with the girl, a man walked up. He looked to the armored man and spoke, "Good sir knight, you need not bother with this... person. She lacks the coin to stay here, let her be on her way."

Arma was not incredibly tall... but a heavily armored man in all black was intimidating. He glared down at the man, his dull eyes seemed to crush the man beneath an unbelievable weight. The man backed off a few steps as he said, "That is... unless your Lord Knightlyship would care to use some of the gold to help... the maid, yes?"

Arma nodded, "Right."

The man nodded and ran back to the inn, probably to tell the person the Knight's new demand for ridding them of their bandits. Arma still offered his armored hand, nodding to her, "Okay?"
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Lyssia
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The tears, it would be worthy to note, were not tears of despair or pain. They were tears of anger, deep seated fury that could nonetheless not be dealt with. Not properly, in any case. These people did not believe her claim to noble birth, much less royalty. And, she had to admit even though she didn't wish to, that they were right to be suspicious. She looked like nothing more than an urchin, crawling the streets and pawing at passersby for whatever coin or scraps they could offer her. She certainly did not look the part of a royal princess.

Consumed by anger and a desire to lash out at anyone, or anything, she almost walked into the man that had stepped into the street before her. She would have walked over him, were it not for the fact that he was...well, big. Much bigger than she was. She blinked, and scrubbed a tear from her cheeks - smudging dirt and mud and eliciting more itching from bites that had yet to heal, and blinked up at the man. Of his features she could see nothing, nothing but the gleam of eyes in the eye slit of the great helm he wore. Dark metal encased his body - heavy armor, the kind of which Knights might in fact wear. Except...well, she had never seen armor such as this. It was not Damascan, neither in design nor coloration. Nor was it Kullen, or any of the myriad realms and kingdoms, city states and protectorates that surrounded her own homeland.

It was, ultimately disquieting. She couldn't believe she had been so sheltered as to be completely ignorant of all that she had seen and heard to date. But it must be so. If she was capable of feeling humbled, she might have then, and for that reason alone.

However, stubborn resolve still flowed in her veins like poison. She looked at the offered hand blankly, not understanding the single word the stranger - a man, from the tone - had offered her along with that hand. She was opening her mouth to speak when one of the townsfolk came up to the man in the black armor, and spoke.

She bit back a retort to the idiotic commoner, but only barely. She was already in a poor odor with the locals, and there was certainly no need to exacerbate it fur- M'Lady to you, knave. I do not care what it is the lot of you think about my person, but you had best keep your opinions to yourself. Well. So much for diplomacy. But who could blame her for her acidic tongue at the moment? She had been sorely tested these last couple of weeks, and her patience was wearing very, very thin.

Her chin rose, her mien suddenly frosty as the man left with haste, apparently chastened by the Knight that stood before her. And what to do about this fellow, anyway? She couldn't be certain of his intentions, or his motives. If she were a commoner, at her age, she would likely be a bit more naive than she was, and more trusting. The Court, though, was an adder's nest and she was well aware of how quickly things could sour.

Beware the stranger bearing gifts, and look ever and always for the hidden barb in any offer. Sage advice, given by her mother when she turned thirty.

Attempting to wrap what dignity she could muster about her - she was well enough trained in many of the courtly arts, including the notion of presence that she should have been capable of pulling it off even wearing rags - she turned to the Knight. I...I don't know what you want, sir. I am quite out of my depth in this place, where ever it is. She managed to carry herself in a regal manner for all of thirty seconds, before being forced to chase down and insistent itch at her waist, likely a flea or some other bite picked up on her travels. Scratching at herself as if she was an urchin! Her cheeks heated at the thought, but if anything her chin rose a little higher.
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Arma listened to her and nodded. He reached back and took out his shield, on it was his name, written in tall white letters, 'Armadura'. He tapped the shield and pointed at the name, then himself. He placed the shield back on his back and crossed his chest with his right hand, bowing slightly, that was how the knights of old in his home world did it. He offered his hand and pointed back towards the inn, "Right?" Helping people is what knights did, even Black Knights helped those in need... even if it meant judging them with the same cold mind as a killer for when they eventually broke oaths or betrayed their own.

The people stared at Armadura, some of them glanced away in shame, a Black Knight was being more courteous to them. An older woman called out, "Sir Knight, I'd be willing to give Lady one of my old dresses... if it pleases you."

Arma nodded, opening the bag on his hip, the glimmer of gold could easily be seen. He picked out a few pieces of gold. He tossed them the short distance to the woman, she snatched them out of the air, her eyes were filled with greed... but not evil.

Arma offered his hand again to the girl, nodding. He was kind because he could be, nobody needed another person to make their lives miserable. He offered the lady a hand of friendship, he did not know who she was, but she was obviously alone, like he was when he first came to Chaon.
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Lyssia
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And that simple act was almost enough to make her break down in tears again - this time of shame. Her face was practically scarlet with it - accepting rags from a villain woman because she had no coin of her own, or at least none to hand. It was a blow to her pride that rocked her to her very core - she even staggered as though struck. It was, alas, an offer that could not be refused however she might wish to do so. Attire played an important role in how others saw her. Regal bearing could only go so far, or at least the level of it she herself had at her command. Her mother, well, she could have been in rags, filthy, and still commanded respect.

But her mother was Queen, and had been Queen for nearly four hundred years. The carriage of her title was steeped into her bones, unassailable by any force that would care to try. While Lyssia, second Princess to the Royal line, was but a girl. Little more than a child, for all of her thirty two years - look at her body, wouldn't you! Before it had become emaciated and thin from starvation, she had barely begun to gain the curves and flesh of a woman grown. It would be another year, maybe two, before she filled out. For now, she was still prepubescent, her first red moon months away, if even then. How could she compare?

She couldn't She had to take the blows to dignity and pride because there was no other option. The ability to carry on as she had once done was gone, at least until she returned home and reclaimed the throne, assuming her mother had not returned and cast the usurpers from their homeland. And even then...she was not at her majority. She could no more hold the Crown than could the villain woman who was offering her plain clothes to her, as if she were little more than a pauper herself.

Indignation could come later. She nodded curtly at the armored man and his shield, presumably bearing his name. Armadura, you have the pleasure of rendering aid to the Princess Lyssia Assail of Damasc. I....accept your offer of aid and succor, though I will not accept charity. Once I have been returned to my homeland, I will see that you are properly repaid for your services. She clung to the frosty dignity, such as she could muster. Spoiled by a shake of the head, and a murmur under her breath, inaudible to all present. Scratching again, she scowled.

First, I must needs bathe. I have been alone for...two weeks?...wandering through a festering swamp and equally vile forest. I need food, and rest. And possibly a healer, to deal with all the scratches and bites and... The litany went on, seemingly endless.
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Armorhide
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Arma waited patiently, he had a lot of practice at that. People would go on for hours of how dumb and dull he was, at least this lady would only complain... which he was also used to listening to. If his sister had still been alive... he banished that thought, his sister was dead, he killed the men that killed her. He nodded, "Okay." She would probably never truly repay him... but he did not need it, it looked like she needed to cling to whatever was still holding her together. He motioned for her to follow.

Arma lead her back to the inn, the innkeeper had an annoyed look, but Arma offered him a hand. He dropped two keys into his hand as he spoke, "There's a bath on the second floor, farthest door on the left. We got some pipes in the walls, gotta use a pump to fill it up. Don't expect hot water unless ya wait a little while. That good enough for you Arma?"

Arma shook his head, pointed to the maid and made a scratching motion. The man gave him an odd look for a few seconds before nodding, "Oh, she's scratchin'? What, you expect us to just give you everything because of how big ya are?"

Arma was fairly tall... and very broad, his armor made him fairly intimidating, so he just asked people things... through writing usually. Arma tapped the bar with his armored knuckles and then pointed to the kitchens.

Man sneered, "The deal was some gold, not all of this stuff, you want a healer and food? Coin. You used up most of it on the second room and the food you ate here before you went on the job."

Arma nodded, that was fair, they had little gold here, didn't need much. So he took out more gold from his bag, placing it down in front of him. He took it up, taking a bite before smiling.

The man nodded to the maiden, "Might want to watch out for this one, he's a Black Knight, ya know, the bad kind of knight. Kills people that break the law, this one's odd he is, doesn't speak much."

Arma slammed his fist down, pointing back to the kitchens. Fear crossed the man's eyes as Arma glared at him. He bowed once before heading back to the kitchens. Arma visibly sagged, shaking his head slowly as he walked to the stairs. He pointed upstairs then to her, trying to tell her to go ahead. He pointed to himself then outside, scratching at his armor for a second, hoping she understood he was going to get her a salve from a healer.
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Lyssia
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She gave the proprietor a frosty regard at his words, eyes like chips of ice. That be as it may, at least he has manners. Something I can not say for many people in this...village. Regardless, if I do not break the law - and why would I, for I am no knave! - I will be fine. Good day to you, sir. Her chin had risen a little in icy arrogance with every word - arrogance and anger, as it turns out. She didn't wait for a reply from him before turning away. A brief nod for Armadura - the hulking man was truly one of few words, though his gesticulation was good enough to get a point across. She nodded curtly to him, and then mounted the stairs, all too aware of eyes following her up.

The commoners did not know what to make of the situation that was playing out, it would seem.

She was nearly winded by the time she made it to the second floor. All of the emotional excitement had made her forget just how tired she was, how she ached. And how hungry she was. It had been days since the last thing that passed for a meal, and even that had been an unsatisfying harvest. It took considerable effort to draw her attention away from the demanding hunger - but not as much as it should of. She felt...filthy. More unclean than she had ever felt in all of her life.

The bath proved to be modest, when she arrived at the door. A small room that was well heated by a fireplace, on which a fire burned - though untended it would seem, for the flames were low. All the same, the warmth was a blessing. She looked around, expecting to see someone to draw her water for her...and found no one. No one in the hall, either, to do this task. With a grimace, she stepped into the room and closed the door - not bothering to latch it - and began to disrobe. Muddy, filthy, torn clothing made a foul smelling pile on the floor beside her which, after a long moments consideration, she tossed into the fire. The clothes were unsalvageable, too torn and worn to make anything more than rags from.

A glance at the apparatus that drew water - a hand pump, she was sure - and she commenced to drawing her own bath. It would have been humiliating had anyone been watching, but thankfully there was no one present to do so. And it took a long while - far longer than she expected it, and was tiring besides. By the time the tub was two-thirds full, she was sheathed in sweat, and weary beyond words.

A finger in water, quickly snatched back. Cold. Well, he had said it would need to be heated, and that took time. She had no desire to wait. Instead, she focused - a trifle difficult to do - and drew upon the wellspring of power within her. The fire of life rushed through her limbs, a stream at high water rushing through her body, suffusing her with bliss, ecstasy. She placed a hand in the water, flinching at the chill....and then sent that magical power there, threading between the bits that made up the water. It was an effort of a minute or so to heat the water until it steamed.

Releasing the power within, with a trace of regret, she withdrew her hand. A quick glance around found wash clothes and towels. And near that, a full length mirror. Lyssia looked at herself in reflection, disquieted by what she saw - snarled hair, mud stained flesh, hundreds of welts from head to toe. Flesh melted away from her now all too thin frame.

As far and away from what was expected of royalty as could possibly be. Sighing, weary, she went to the tub, and slipped into the steaming water on blissful inch at a time.




Turned out to require more than one bath to clean the filth from her body, filling the tub with dirt and other unmentionable detritus as she cleaned her hair out, and scrubbed her skin (at first, as lightly as would one simply taking a bath...and then viciously, as the irrtated bites began to itch like madness). A second bath to get truly clean, an effort that was almost too much to manage, even though the effort involved was small, both on the part of getting the water and of heating it.

In the interim, someone had hung the villain woman's dress on the door, and even been thoughtful enough to bring her a brush. Discarding the towel, she donned the brown woolen garment with a trace of distaste on her feature - for a wonder the thing actually fit properly...well, almost (there was a bit of extra room in the chest, which was unsurprising) - and commenced to brushing oput the snarls and tangles of her fiery hair. With the filth gone, her flesh was pallid in complexion, the hair a deep lustrous red that hung to her rump, faintly wavy. It took...an absurd amount of time to brush it out - it was so tangled as to be ludicrous. Completing that, she gathered up the brush and the jar of ointment brought to banish the crazed itching, and opened the door.

She walked barefoot down the hall and back to the stairs, skin and hair smelling of soap. And looked for the man in armor, the man called Armadura.
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Arma nodded as she walked up the stairs. He went about his business, walking to the nearest healer and paying her for a jar of green goo. He was told to apply it to the bug bites before he slept and then remove it in the morning before bathing. He nodded, taking the jar with him back to the inn. He checked the rooms they had been given, making sure his still had his duffle bag in it and finding out which room the girl would stay in. Her room was conveniently just across his, he placed the jar on a small table and went back to his own room. He slowly took off his armor, piece by piece, slowly, almost painfully slow.

Once he was free of his armor he replaced his clothes, changing out his black undershirt and white pants for a black tunic with red trimming. His skin looked like liquid bronze, his hair was blonde and slightly wavy, but cut short to make sure it wouldn't get in the way during battle. He wrapped his head up with a black scarf and placed a leather helm on his head to hide his face, making sure only his eyes could be completely seen. He walked out of his room and turned his head as a young lady walked toward him... her hair was a fiery red, her eyes were similar to lilacs, but she wore a plain brown dress that was ill fitting. Arma had made sure to keep his shield and mace with him, his mace on his hip and shield on his back.

Arma nodded to her, "Right." He went back into his room only to collect a small notebook, the key to his new friend's room, and an inkwell pen he had bought in Striberg. He walked back into the hall and handed the lady her key and tapped the door that was hers. He motioned for her to follow as he went back downstairs.

Food had already been laid out, a lot of food. Warm bread, beef stew, thick slices of ham, and fruits in a bowl. Arma sat down and placed his notebook aside, nodding at the girl and motioning for her to sit down and join him for the meal.

The innkeeper's daughter walked up to them and asked, "Is there anything you two would like to drink? Well, anything the lady would like to drink, Arma you want water as usual?"

Arma nodded, "Right."
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Lyssia
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The man was out of his armor when she cleared out from the bath, annoyance flitting through her tired head and aching body. The dress was its source, of course - too loose in the front, too loose in the hips. Maybe, after she had eaten a little better for a while it would fill in a little...but she was still but a child in the blossoming of womanhood, and couldn't hope to fill the damned thing out properly. It made her feel...awkward, to wear something that didn't fit. It was also a touch embarrassing to be seen in commoners clothing.

Still, there was naught she could do about it. Perhaps this Armdura could assist her further than he already had, returning her to her homeland. If he could do that, everything would be made right again. If.

The man offered her a key, which she accepted, indicating the door to her room (which was likely as squalid as everything else had been so far - but at least, in this case, she wasn't about to complain), and then indicated that she should follow her. Noting the door, she nodded her ascent, as though he were her escort or honor guard, and followed behind him, bare feet slapping on wood. She held to dignity tightly, as if it were a lifeline, and never mind her disheveled state. She was clean at least, and that was a start.

Food had indeed been laid out, but it was not in a private dining room as she had expected it to be. Instead, it was on a table in the common room, a room that was lightly populated with some of the same patrons that had been there when she first arrived. Those who looked up at her, she fixed with a frosty glare before hurrying along in the wake of the warrior. Taking his place, she took hers at the opposite end of the tabel staring at the food. Her stomach growled loudly, which made her cheeks heat faintly. And of the food...well, a lot of it seemed familiar, but the fruit provided was strange and alien to her. At first she thought it was merely colorful decoration, until the Knight took one for himself.

Lyssia looked up at the young lady that came to ask after their desired refreshment. Young, but clearly older than she was - maybe fifty or sixty years old, looking at her - the innkeeper's daughter was a fairer figure than Lyssia could even hope to achieve. Frustrating, then, to be placed with this woman as a mocking contrast to her own childish body. Water will suit me fine,. She didn't think she could get away with asking after mulled wine, and in any case needed to retain her wits right now.

Taking a slice of bread as the woman left, and a knife to butter the rich slice. Her first bite was actually painful - her guts wanted to rebel at being without for so long. She was forced to take it slowly, which allowed her to savor the sweet bread one bite at a time.

I...haven't properly thanked you yet, Armdura. And so I now do so, from the bottom of my heart. She paused, chewing more of the soft bread, then continued. Who are you, and from whence do you come, m'Lord? I have not seen armor of your styling ever. You don't seem to be of the people - are you perhaps mixed blood? I cannot feel you...
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Arma took a bite of an apple as he listened to her, he could not say what he was... but that was why he had a journal, it was filled with information for the basic questions people might ask him. One of them was what he was and where he came from. He took up the journal and opened it up, flipping through a few pages before finding the answer. He slid the journal to her, allowing her to read it. If she could read common she would read that he was a High Human from another dimension, exiled to Chaon for his actions, actions he would gladly do again if the same situation presented itself.

The man next to Arma smirked, "He don't talk much besides five words. Right?"

Another man shouted, "Okay!"

More chimed in, "Bruh."

"Mrgh."

and the last voice was from a man who was already two large mugs deep into getting drunk, "Yeh!"

Arma smirked beneath the scarf as he nodded, "Right. Bruh, Ok. Yeh, Mrgh."

The man spoke up again, "But he writes pretty, that he does. Whenever he needs something he writes it out or pantomimes it. We think he's a bit of a simpleton."

Arma took up some ham, cutting it quickly and deftly, drinking from his water after taking a few bites.
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Lyssia
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She took the offered book, and looked at the words on the page. The writing was...slightly different from what she was used to, almost more crude and poorly spelled. But she could understand it well enough, just as the people she had come across spoke with a heavy accent that sometimes made things a little difficult to understand, especially when they spoke quickly. High Human...a nonsensical name, to her. She had never heard of any such, not in the Annals or through the words of the High Mages and Walkers that occasionally visited the Palace of the Dawn. And at the mention of another dimension...

Not listening to the natter of the others in the room, she looked at Armadura with a gleam in her eye. Another world? But...but we so seldom encounter others who travel in this manner! You say you are this...High Human. Well, that would make sense - I do not sense in you the power of my people. She paused, and cast a surreptitious glance around the room. From none of the people in this room, either. Or the other lady I met in my travels. She paused to hesitantly take a slice of the hame, still wafting steam that smelled of salt and sugar. The slice would be enough to fill her by itself, and she proceeded with the delicate work of dismantling it.

If you are from another realm, then perhaps you won't know where Damasc is? No one I have met has even heard of it before. I need to get home, to set aright a terrible injustice. She paused, her eyes darkening. Betrayal and murder....these must needs be answered, Knight. They killed everyone...
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Armorhide
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Arma nodded, flipping a few pages in the book and pointing out a single line, 'I am Justice.' He didn't have a page that promised to help someone back to their home dimension, but he could at least shrug when she asked about her homeland, his people probably kidnapped people from there... but he was never very big on learning all of the places his kind stole their lovers and mistresses from. He showed her another passage, it was about 'High Humans' and how they were naturally gifted with psionic power, Arma had never had talent for it and chose to remain silent and be ridiculed, he found it enjoyable to make people stammering fools and shouting idiots by just ignoring them or saying 'Right' or 'Yeh'.

He showed her the first page, it told of his exile. About how he had taken his younger sister out to meet a wandering group of minstrels. They had used psionic powers to murder his sister simply because such things were legal, if one was to weak to defend themselves then they died. It told of how Arma snapped, taking up a mace he had forged in secret and beating the men to death and every man that conspired with them. He was exiled because his pursuit of justice was not legal, beating a man to death was considered beneath them, but Arma found delivering justice to those that deserved it was his calling. The last words read as such, 'I am Armadura Ocultar, The Black Knight that Pursues Justice. I will right all wrongs, one way or another.'
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Lyssia
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That is a very....primitive society you have there, Armadura. The mighty can oppress the weak simply because they are stronger? A shame, that. She picked at her food, her appetite diminishing with the recollection of what she had been witness to, and what she had endured thusfar. This man apparently didn't know where home was, either. No one appeared to have any idea about it...and it was beginning to get frustrating.

She would not, however, entertain the notion of being all alone, cut loose from the only home she had ever known. There had to be someone who knew were it was...and failing that, she could travel until she found someone. Only, she needed money.

A problem, that.

She stared at her plate, brooding.

It was treachery. Plain and simple as that, only...it was a much deeper betrayal then ever before experienced by our people, I think. Our own general lured the Royal family into the war room, and then...slaughtered them all. Them, the heads of state and staff, dropping the reins of power right into his own hands. He tried to kill me, too, but I think my attempt to counter him altered his magic in some way. At one moment I was seeing a room filled with my family, slain and laying in their own scorched blood...and then I was elsewhere. A marsh. She paused, and looked up at him, her expression strange. I wonder what has become of my country, with its heads of state so thoroughly destroyed. And....and I wonder about the binding. If he managed to release whatever it was he intended on...
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Arma nodded, she had come from a worse situation than he did, her family was dead and it was unlikely that she could take a country alone. He took the book back and raised his pen, flipping to some of the blank pages in the back. He quickly jotted down, 'I am sorry to hear that. I have never heard of this country, but you might have better luck in Cascadia. Many airships come and go from Cascadia, if someone knows of where your country is, it will be there. I can help you a bit, it will not be much, but I can escort you to Norwood Village and hire a carriage to take you to a skybarge, it should take you to the floating city.'

He slowly slid the journal back to her before finishing off his meal, he had eaten more than anyone else, taking a second slice of ham, a half loaf of bread, and two more bowls of stew before he had filled his stomach. He remembered the medicine and motioned for the lass to give back the book. He quickly writes the instructions down, to apply the medicine before she sleeps and remove it the next day during another bath. He also wrote down that he would be going to bed and would see her in the morning.

As he left, one of the men spat on the floor before speaking, "It'll be good riddance when the big dullard leaves. Armed folk bring as much trouble as they get rid of." With that several people left, the table would leave only the few to drunk to move and a few serving girls to clean up the mess.

_________________________________________________________________________

The following morning, Arma took his bath at the crack of dawn, wiping away the sweat of yesterday's work. Once he was done, he dressed up in his clothes from last night and went about polishing his armor, shield, and mace. His armor would soon be polished to perfection, he worked without the helm or scarf covering his face, his door slightly cracked open. To those that would peek in, they would see Arma's face, he had high cheekbones, bronze colored skin, and bright golden hair that ended just short of his eyes, the hair on his head was wavy and seemed to be a bit naturally curly. His dull golden eyes would not notice anything besides his armor, polishing the adamantine shell and doing minor maintenance on the belts and buckles that kept his armor together.
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Lyssia
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She accepted the medicine and the instructions with the barest inclination of head, and watched as the Black Knight left the table. She looked at the remnants of the meal, and took one more piece of ham, eating it mechanically as she watched the last few stragglers in the common room finally rise on unsteady legs, and leave.

She was distraught, a fact that she hid from the rest of the world behind a childish, cool facade - one that showed cracks around the edges when she lost her concentration, when she forgot to keep up the act. No one knew of Damasc. Not a single soul she had spoken of, no matter how widely traveled, had been able to give nay indication of having heard of her country of origin. Damasc was not so small as to be insignificant - many of the realms of Imythess were of a size with it. And yet no one had heard. No rumors from Choer, or from across the sea where the Rejevi came from - names she was not familiar with, in any case.

She looked down at the plate before her, astonished to find it empty. Well, she had gone without food of any significant amount for some time.

It was just a shame it tasted of ashes in her mouth.




Faces arrayed about her, in the various poses and attitudes of death - lifeless, filmed eyes that swiveled in dry sockets to track her every motion. The room was filled with blood - blood run for torn and shattered flesh, from bodies scorched and misshapen.

An entire Court of corpses, their ghastly faces fixed in rictus snarls at the betrayal that had brought about their end, and in dark jealousy of those that had managed, through some miracle, to escape. Of that group, there were precious few. Lyssia was one such, and now she stood beneath the regard of the dead...and listened to their voices.

You, child, are all that stands between oblivion and salvation, now. Too little, alas, to avail us of much. The deathly voice of the King himself echoed in the chamber. His dull eyes regarded her with a mixture of impatience and disregard, callous. Cold. The last of the Line to live - and but a girl. Scarcely thirty, and she must accept the burden even those grown and wise in their years have shirked from?

Lyssia said nothing. What could she say? What words could she give that would refute the truths thus revealed? She was too young. Oh, she had some experience - limited as it was by her age. Humans could not understand that detail - thirty two years old, and still barely even a teenager by the reckoning of the Sidhe. She had been sheltered from the worst of the world, living a life with tutors and instructors. Hers was not, yet, the harsh world beyond the walls of the palace. She was no commoner, not forced to do work in her learning years as the lower class might be forced to.

She was not ready for the burden of the Family. And, alas, there was no choice.

You are not ready, child...but we shall endeavor to make you as cognizant of your danger as wel may. And, perhaps, teach you what little we can. Death is never as binding as the Lord thinks it is. It is amazing that he forgets this so often.

A broken arm, the flesh shredded, lifted free of the pile of corpses, threads of half congealed blood stretching as the King raised his hand...and banished her.

She felt as if she were shoved, and from the nightmarish room that held her dead family, she plunged into darkness, and uneasy dreams - normal nightmares, rather that the strangely prophetic.




Morning light streamed in through a window, the grey color that comes just before the sun rises above the horizon. Lyssia lay in a snarl of bedding, blankets and sheets twisted around her scrawny frame.Awareness returned, along with memories of dreams that were in their own way more real than all the others. The ghastly visitation in her sleep from those whom had been dead for weeks now was not something she could easily dismiss; sorcery was entwined about her people to such a great degree that there was no way she could ever be convinced of ignoring abnormal dreams. The had substance, those dreams, even if she could not fathom it.

She rose, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and grimaced at the dull ache behind her eyes. Perhaps a side effect of the salve she had smeared across her flesh. It had worked, and now the majority of those bites had diminished to little more than red splotches hidden beneath vile smelling gunk.

It took a long moment for her to untangle her hair - she had tossed and turned and somehow knotted the entire mess into an agonizing ordeal to be brushed out. That done, donning the dress that had been paid for by a hand other than her own, she stepped into the hallway.

The door to the Knights room was open a crack, and she hesitated outside it, wondering whether she should disturb him or not. Eventually, her own personal sense of place in the world won out in that contest, and she pushed the door open lightly. Displaying a man that she could scarcely believe, in comparison to what she had expected. He looked...so much older than she was. Probably a hundred, maybe two hundred years her senior. A man fully grown and fully innured to the world she was discovering for the first time.

Good morning, Armadura. She tried to fill her words with a sense of ease that she herself lacked - haunted as she was by the visions of the night. That haunted cast was in her eyes, those orbs that glowed faintly with the power of her blood.
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