Original Submissions by Proxie of type 'Stories'
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Northern Tale, A
Added on Mar 25, 2006A brief glimpse into the life of a Tuluki noble's child following her mother's death and during the Occupation.
I was a young child when my mother was killed, until that day sheltered and protected by my mother's position and wealth, paraded as a showpiece with my brothers when the occasion required. I remember a late night, being grabbed up, the scent of blood heavy on the air. Taking me past her shrouded body as my brothers and I were removed from Silverwood by a back way. They wouldn't let us look, I found out later, the elves had taken her head as a trophy. My mother's men had sad faces, some the reddened eyes of grief, while we rode, seated before them on ratlons, the silver and blue cloaks enfolding us. The night was cold. My teeth chattered. We traveled a winding route, to lead off any who might follow.
They stopped at the Pyramid. Spoke to Brooks, hushed tones, a brief argument. Where were we to go? The threat was still heavy in the air, the runners could have been just beyond the light's edge. He came, looked at each of us, laid a hand on my cheek. The Precentor's name was mentioned, and then we were riding again. Wind fast, dawn breaking, to the northeast, to Tenneshi. Father's family. Turned over to them, to our relations, clothes on our backs, other things being packed up and brought. My brothers, Thadrian and Tarquin, and I, Nuala, finally tucked into a nursery, silken sheets cool on our weary bodies. And we never heard her name again in open conversation. Vivienne Reynolte was dead.
Years later, the Occupation. Another night, the uneasiness thick on the air, our lessons interrupted by chaos in the yard. Luirs had fallen, had betrayed, had fallen, none were certain. The Nakkis were coming, with their army of magicks and black soldiers. We rushed to the nursery, stripped off our silks, our jewelry, our fine boots, slaves brought coarse cloth that chafed my skin. Sandals that bit and didn't fit properly. Numut dye to hide our protected flesh. We wanted to fight the barbarians, wanted to fight for our north, burning hatred for those who had hired mother's death still nurtured.
Set aside by the guardsmen, girding themselves for battle, jaws set in the line of men not coming home. We must survive, the blood of the nobles, to hide, to not suffer the fate that Reynolte was facing; the full army at their gates, murdering, raping all that moved. Magicks twisting flesh and bone, sand and stone, driving the Gol itself mad with it's taint. For the northlands they rode that day, for the northlands, my brothers and I, and the other Tenneshi young hid. We joined households for a time, never too long, moving to another before the overseers caught us. Some were caught. Some were tortured, some died. Younglings to old, those of noble blood who were caught faced the southerner's wrath full on.
And we kept our lineage strong, we kept it as pure as possible. I married with a cousin, had my family, always in hiding, always in fear. My brothers took wives, in secret as well, we produced our next generation of blood. My brother's oldest daughter fell, slain by the Borsails as they captured her for breeding. She did not let them take her. Our friends, shelterers, protectors died for us. Their names will never be forgotten by me. Today, an old woman, I write this tale for those who can someday read it. This week I hide in the depths of my beloved city, and I bid whoever finds this to read it to those beneath them. The blood of Tuluk lives on, eagerly awaiting the day when we find victory.
I was a young child when my mother was killed, until that day sheltered and protected by my mother's position and wealth, paraded as a showpiece with my brothers when the occasion required. I remember a late night, being grabbed up, the scent of blood heavy on the air. Taking me past her...
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