01-16-2016, 10:33 AM
Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies
They keep coming - the chosen ones - and she cannot help but wonder what makes each of them special. Nothing, perhaps. Weaver likes to think herself special, but she’s not a fool either. She is dimly aware that she’s just a little girl with no special talents at all. But despite that, she’s here. Maybe she'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Some of the others look scared, though acceptance seems to replace fear. Some look determined. Some intrigued. Weaver is not the only young horse in the crowd either. She notices one girl who says she welcomes her fate, and another boy who tries to make a joke of it all. Maybe they’ve all gone completely mad, but Weaver doesn’t think this is any joke. She finds herself drawn to him anyway, though she couldn’t say why. Maybe just because he’s young and offers his name.
She gives him a scathing look at his joke, but softens, adding, “Weaver”. Though she doesn’t move his way. Instead she slips through the crowd, closing the distance between herself and Warship. She hadn’t missed him in the crowd. They hadn’t met, but she’d be a terrible Princess and he a terrible General if they didn’t know who the other was.
The familiar smell of mist and pine draws her to his side. Giving him a nod, she settles in to wait as others accept their fate as well. One does so with a snide comment about the world coming to an end before. Weaver wonders how many times the world has crumbled and been rebuilt. Magic, after all, runs rampant in Beqanna. The world could burn a thousand times over, right beneath their feet, and they may never know.
Then everything stands still. There is nothing. The world is silent, without the hint of a breeze or the crunch of a hoof against the earth. It is only a heartbeat of a moment, the span between one Thump thump of her heart and the next. But it feels longer. Not one of those moments that drags on for eternity or some nonsense. Just long enough to notice it.
Then the lamb comes, its seven eyes blinking, seven horns crowning its head. Weaver steps forward without thinking, trying to get a better look. Curiosity might kill her one day, but that doesn’t stop her now. Perhaps it will never stop her. But of course she is still young enough to believe herself invincible. Foolish enough to not yet fear death.
She notices those seven eyes. They look only at her. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. The rational part of her brain thinks that this can’t be true. There are plenty of other horses to look at. But it doesn’t matter. She swears it looks only at her, swear it knows her every thought. Knows that she does not fear death, not yet anyway. There’s a quick flash of a thought in her head, and she doesn’t know if it’s her own or from the lamb. You will fear death soon.
This realization screams in her head. And then it disappears, leaving her with a hint of lingering uncertainty, a bad taste in her mouth. She blinks, trying to shake the feeling away. When she opens her eyes, the lamb has moved, foot on a flat stone in the earth. There are four, she notices now, perhaps a second too late. Symbols swirl over the rocks, another language that has no meaning to her. But they must mean something. They must be important.
Otherwise, all these horses wouldn't be here. Otherwise, the lamb would have no reason to press his hoof into one. The rock shatters. Weaver closes her eyes, tucking her head to her chest, trying to avoid any debris. She’s quick to open her eyes though and pop her head back up, not wanting to miss a second.
It’s a seal.
The thought flashes in her mind, just like before. Her thoughts? Or did someone plant that knowledge there? But it doesn’t matter how she knows. All that matters is the broken seal, the lamb (gone again), and the silence that surrounds them.
The silence is not complete this time. She can hear her companions shuffling about, can hear the puff of air from their mouths and nostrils. Can hear the pounding of her heart.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Laughter fills the air. Not happy laughter. Not ‘oh, what a great joke’ laughter. It is cool and pleased and wicked. It reminds her of Mother, with her mischievous half smile and amused laughter. But this laugh is far darker and deeper than Mother’s. It is far more unnerving.
A flash of light. Another. And then a stallion (or a monster resembling one, anyway). His eyes are the color of fear, but he is not afraid. No, he is gleeful, joyus. Victorious.
Conquest.
Again, the word is in her head. But this time, it doesn’t stop. This time, the trees whisper his name. This time, her heart pumps the word. Conquest, conquest. Conquest, conquest. She wants to shout, wants to drown out the sound. Wants to rip the voice out of her head. Go away go away go away. She thinks, her thoughts a yell, trying to shut out the sound of his name.
Her knees are weak, but she refuses to crumble. Her head aches, but she refuses to shut her eyes. Refuses to look away. Refuses to give in completely. Though her mind is reeling, screaming, tearing itself apart inside her skull. But she will not give in.
She stares at him instead. Stares at the festering, rotting flesh that peels off his frame. Stares at those sickly yellow eyes and that blithe grin. Stares as the creatures begin to appear one by one behind him. A wolf with one eye. A bear with metal skin (she’s never seen armor before, after all). A badger with red eyes and spikes down its back and tail. An army of grotesque experiments. Someone’s idea of a terrible, terrible joke.
She can’t stop looking though, no matter how deformed the army gets. The panther with fangs bared, points glinting with silver. And she realizes she’s looking for a raven. Part of her expects one to be there, deformed and monstrous. They are monstrous, aren’t they, her mother’s little pets? Most of her is looking for her raven though. Maybe he’s here somehow. Because Raven is the only weapon she’s got.
What is a tiny little girl like her supposed to do against the army from hell?
Nothing. She can do nothing. And finally, fear clenches her heart. Finally, she realizes that she's going to die.
The Seal! The voice booms, their purpose becoming clear. The lamb has started the process, but has not set Conquest free. There are three more seals, still intact. Conquest is the end of the world, but they can stop it.
Can they? A handful of children and a couple of warriors? They should have picked her Mother with her army of ravens. They should have picked Eight, with his magic. Not Weaver. Not a little girl with no remarkable skills at all. Warship and the gray mare may know what to do, but does anyone else?
Think, Weaver. This time the voice in her head is her Mother’s. She’s heard it so many times, and the familiarity calms her. So she takes a deep breath, and thinks. She stares at the rotting horse and it’s army of misshapen minions. She can feel her knees quake.
She could help free it (it, because she cannot think of the rotting corpse as a horse). But would that save her own skin? No. She doesn’t think the beast cares. In the end, he wanted nothing but the word that kept swimming in her head. Conquest. He would destroy it all. He’d put those that helped and those that didn’t on their knees. Broken and bloodied and beaten. If she thought helping might save her, then she would have set the thing free. But it won’t save her.
She has to fight. She has to stop this. One way or another, she's already dead. She can't see a way to survive this. Can't imagine a scenario in which she gets back to the Chamber. At least, resigned to this fate, she has nothing left to lose.
She tosses a glance to Warship, hoping that his loyalty to the Chamber might encourage him to help her. But she can’t wait either. She casts her eyes on the ground, trying to find a piece of the seal. The pieces went everywhere, launched farther than a rock should naturally shatter. After a few moments, she spots one.
Oh, she breathes, realizing that Conquest and his army stand just next to the shard. She hunt for more, looking for something behind her, away from the army of the dead. But now it’s too late. Conquest’s minions are moving. She hears the clinking of metal against rocks, low growls of predators. She whirls around again to see a snake and a coyote launching themselves toward the group of horses.
She scrambles backward, nearly tripping over her gangly legs and a rock. Her feet stay under her though, and she looks back up at the mayhem that’s broken out. The piece of seal goes skittering across the ground, the badger knocking into it as he moves. She wonders how long before the pieces scatter so far they’ll never find any of them.
No more thinking. She races toward the army from hell, hoping her small size will be an advantage. Maybe the bear won’t notice her, or the wolf. Maybe they’ll attack the warriors, the adults. Or maybe they’ll just take out the easy targets first. Like her.
To her relief, Conquest is heading away from her. She tosses a glance back, noticing how it stalks the gray warrior mare. Is that Lagertha? Mother told her of all the rulers; what they look like, what they act like. This mare fits the bill, and Weaver makes it a point to be wary of the Amazonian (if it is, in fact, her). She's a skilled warrior, and a threat if she didn’t decide to stop all this. But for now, Weaver is just grateful that the gray mare is distracting Conquest.
Weaver turns forward, eyes falling on the snarling badger. He flicks his tail back and forth, the metal spikes already dotted red. She wants to turn tail and run, but to where? What good is running going to do her? You are stronger than that, Weaver, she reminds herself, she launching toward the badger.
She kicks her front legs out, aiming for its head and those beady red eyes, trying to stay well away from the spikes. The badger whirls around, tail lashing out and rolling to it’s side so her legs connect with the spikes. She screams, more from shock and aggravation than pain. The wounds aren’t deep, but enough to draw blood which now trickles down her legs. A shock of red in this otherwise muted world. She tumbles to the ground as she lands, lashing out with her legs like an upturned turtle.
From her odd vantage point on the ground, she can see Conquest and one of the other mares now. His muzzle trails down her back, and then... What? No. Oh, that’s so wrong. she thinks. Living and rotting flesh dance together. She’s struck for a moment by the scene, fascination and horror keeping her eyes glued. The spikes slash at her belly now though, and she yelps, tearing her gaze away from Conquest and the mare.
She lashes out with her legs again, and then scrambles to her feet. She hears a rather satisfying crack and she stomps on a leg of the badger. His leg snaps, flesh tearing away from the bone. The badger doesn’t seem to feel it, but of course, the army from hell wouldn't feel pain. But the badger can’t move as well now, and she’s able to dash away from it.
But the next shadow that looms over her is far larger than the badger. She turns around in time to see the bear with his metal skin. Oh. This time she screams as loud as she can, doing the one thing she can think to do. “WARSHIP!” Because she may be able to fight off a badger, but a bear? There is nothing she can do but roll over an die. Or run.
She’d rather play coward and run, so she does. She takes off, hoping the shard is still where she saw it before. The shadows looms over her still. She can’t outrun a bear. She can feel it behind her, getting closer. Imagines that paw raised with claws ready to kill. But just as she thinks this will be her last breath, the shadow of the bear disappears from behind her. She tries to look, and thinks that perhaps she sees a flash of black. Warship. Did he save her?
But she doesn’t have time to turn and look. She can’t stop running, can’t risk getting attacked by the anything else. Something breezes by behind her, and she sees rotting flesh trailing behind it. Conquest doesn’t stop, doesn’t seem interested in her. But he didn’t need to stop. He'd brushed against her side as he went, and that was enough.
Her head starts pounding almost immediately, her the edges of her vision blurring. She slows to a stop, clenching her eyes shut. Heat seems to be flooding through her, far more than it should despite all the fighting. Something is wrong. Her knees are weak, and no longer just from Conquest’s desire to destroy them all. She wants to flop to the ground, just curl up and stay there.
But she opens her eyes instead, squinting, looking for that damn shard. And it’s there. Just a few steps in front of her. There’s a second shard only a few feet past the first. “Warship!” she yells, the effort causing her head to pound in her skull. She shuts her eyes again, willing her legs to just move forward. One step, then another.
She has no idea if Warship heard her, or knew that she was trying to point him toward the second shard. Maybe he’s already found one anyway. She couldn’t bring herself to look around though, to try and find him. She can only hope he heard. She peeks her eyes open, the pounding in her head relaxing for a moment. There! The shard. Despite the fever and the pain and the cuts all over her skin, she smiles just a bit as she puts a hoof down on the shard.
Some of the others look scared, though acceptance seems to replace fear. Some look determined. Some intrigued. Weaver is not the only young horse in the crowd either. She notices one girl who says she welcomes her fate, and another boy who tries to make a joke of it all. Maybe they’ve all gone completely mad, but Weaver doesn’t think this is any joke. She finds herself drawn to him anyway, though she couldn’t say why. Maybe just because he’s young and offers his name.
She gives him a scathing look at his joke, but softens, adding, “Weaver”. Though she doesn’t move his way. Instead she slips through the crowd, closing the distance between herself and Warship. She hadn’t missed him in the crowd. They hadn’t met, but she’d be a terrible Princess and he a terrible General if they didn’t know who the other was.
The familiar smell of mist and pine draws her to his side. Giving him a nod, she settles in to wait as others accept their fate as well. One does so with a snide comment about the world coming to an end before. Weaver wonders how many times the world has crumbled and been rebuilt. Magic, after all, runs rampant in Beqanna. The world could burn a thousand times over, right beneath their feet, and they may never know.
Then everything stands still. There is nothing. The world is silent, without the hint of a breeze or the crunch of a hoof against the earth. It is only a heartbeat of a moment, the span between one Thump thump of her heart and the next. But it feels longer. Not one of those moments that drags on for eternity or some nonsense. Just long enough to notice it.
Then the lamb comes, its seven eyes blinking, seven horns crowning its head. Weaver steps forward without thinking, trying to get a better look. Curiosity might kill her one day, but that doesn’t stop her now. Perhaps it will never stop her. But of course she is still young enough to believe herself invincible. Foolish enough to not yet fear death.
She notices those seven eyes. They look only at her. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. The rational part of her brain thinks that this can’t be true. There are plenty of other horses to look at. But it doesn’t matter. She swears it looks only at her, swear it knows her every thought. Knows that she does not fear death, not yet anyway. There’s a quick flash of a thought in her head, and she doesn’t know if it’s her own or from the lamb. You will fear death soon.
This realization screams in her head. And then it disappears, leaving her with a hint of lingering uncertainty, a bad taste in her mouth. She blinks, trying to shake the feeling away. When she opens her eyes, the lamb has moved, foot on a flat stone in the earth. There are four, she notices now, perhaps a second too late. Symbols swirl over the rocks, another language that has no meaning to her. But they must mean something. They must be important.
Otherwise, all these horses wouldn't be here. Otherwise, the lamb would have no reason to press his hoof into one. The rock shatters. Weaver closes her eyes, tucking her head to her chest, trying to avoid any debris. She’s quick to open her eyes though and pop her head back up, not wanting to miss a second.
It’s a seal.
The thought flashes in her mind, just like before. Her thoughts? Or did someone plant that knowledge there? But it doesn’t matter how she knows. All that matters is the broken seal, the lamb (gone again), and the silence that surrounds them.
The silence is not complete this time. She can hear her companions shuffling about, can hear the puff of air from their mouths and nostrils. Can hear the pounding of her heart.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Laughter fills the air. Not happy laughter. Not ‘oh, what a great joke’ laughter. It is cool and pleased and wicked. It reminds her of Mother, with her mischievous half smile and amused laughter. But this laugh is far darker and deeper than Mother’s. It is far more unnerving.
A flash of light. Another. And then a stallion (or a monster resembling one, anyway). His eyes are the color of fear, but he is not afraid. No, he is gleeful, joyus. Victorious.
Conquest.
Again, the word is in her head. But this time, it doesn’t stop. This time, the trees whisper his name. This time, her heart pumps the word. Conquest, conquest. Conquest, conquest. She wants to shout, wants to drown out the sound. Wants to rip the voice out of her head. Go away go away go away. She thinks, her thoughts a yell, trying to shut out the sound of his name.
Her knees are weak, but she refuses to crumble. Her head aches, but she refuses to shut her eyes. Refuses to look away. Refuses to give in completely. Though her mind is reeling, screaming, tearing itself apart inside her skull. But she will not give in.
She stares at him instead. Stares at the festering, rotting flesh that peels off his frame. Stares at those sickly yellow eyes and that blithe grin. Stares as the creatures begin to appear one by one behind him. A wolf with one eye. A bear with metal skin (she’s never seen armor before, after all). A badger with red eyes and spikes down its back and tail. An army of grotesque experiments. Someone’s idea of a terrible, terrible joke.
She can’t stop looking though, no matter how deformed the army gets. The panther with fangs bared, points glinting with silver. And she realizes she’s looking for a raven. Part of her expects one to be there, deformed and monstrous. They are monstrous, aren’t they, her mother’s little pets? Most of her is looking for her raven though. Maybe he’s here somehow. Because Raven is the only weapon she’s got.
What is a tiny little girl like her supposed to do against the army from hell?
Nothing. She can do nothing. And finally, fear clenches her heart. Finally, she realizes that she's going to die.
The Seal! The voice booms, their purpose becoming clear. The lamb has started the process, but has not set Conquest free. There are three more seals, still intact. Conquest is the end of the world, but they can stop it.
Can they? A handful of children and a couple of warriors? They should have picked her Mother with her army of ravens. They should have picked Eight, with his magic. Not Weaver. Not a little girl with no remarkable skills at all. Warship and the gray mare may know what to do, but does anyone else?
Think, Weaver. This time the voice in her head is her Mother’s. She’s heard it so many times, and the familiarity calms her. So she takes a deep breath, and thinks. She stares at the rotting horse and it’s army of misshapen minions. She can feel her knees quake.
She could help free it (it, because she cannot think of the rotting corpse as a horse). But would that save her own skin? No. She doesn’t think the beast cares. In the end, he wanted nothing but the word that kept swimming in her head. Conquest. He would destroy it all. He’d put those that helped and those that didn’t on their knees. Broken and bloodied and beaten. If she thought helping might save her, then she would have set the thing free. But it won’t save her.
She has to fight. She has to stop this. One way or another, she's already dead. She can't see a way to survive this. Can't imagine a scenario in which she gets back to the Chamber. At least, resigned to this fate, she has nothing left to lose.
She tosses a glance to Warship, hoping that his loyalty to the Chamber might encourage him to help her. But she can’t wait either. She casts her eyes on the ground, trying to find a piece of the seal. The pieces went everywhere, launched farther than a rock should naturally shatter. After a few moments, she spots one.
Oh, she breathes, realizing that Conquest and his army stand just next to the shard. She hunt for more, looking for something behind her, away from the army of the dead. But now it’s too late. Conquest’s minions are moving. She hears the clinking of metal against rocks, low growls of predators. She whirls around again to see a snake and a coyote launching themselves toward the group of horses.
She scrambles backward, nearly tripping over her gangly legs and a rock. Her feet stay under her though, and she looks back up at the mayhem that’s broken out. The piece of seal goes skittering across the ground, the badger knocking into it as he moves. She wonders how long before the pieces scatter so far they’ll never find any of them.
No more thinking. She races toward the army from hell, hoping her small size will be an advantage. Maybe the bear won’t notice her, or the wolf. Maybe they’ll attack the warriors, the adults. Or maybe they’ll just take out the easy targets first. Like her.
To her relief, Conquest is heading away from her. She tosses a glance back, noticing how it stalks the gray warrior mare. Is that Lagertha? Mother told her of all the rulers; what they look like, what they act like. This mare fits the bill, and Weaver makes it a point to be wary of the Amazonian (if it is, in fact, her). She's a skilled warrior, and a threat if she didn’t decide to stop all this. But for now, Weaver is just grateful that the gray mare is distracting Conquest.
Weaver turns forward, eyes falling on the snarling badger. He flicks his tail back and forth, the metal spikes already dotted red. She wants to turn tail and run, but to where? What good is running going to do her? You are stronger than that, Weaver, she reminds herself, she launching toward the badger.
She kicks her front legs out, aiming for its head and those beady red eyes, trying to stay well away from the spikes. The badger whirls around, tail lashing out and rolling to it’s side so her legs connect with the spikes. She screams, more from shock and aggravation than pain. The wounds aren’t deep, but enough to draw blood which now trickles down her legs. A shock of red in this otherwise muted world. She tumbles to the ground as she lands, lashing out with her legs like an upturned turtle.
From her odd vantage point on the ground, she can see Conquest and one of the other mares now. His muzzle trails down her back, and then... What? No. Oh, that’s so wrong. she thinks. Living and rotting flesh dance together. She’s struck for a moment by the scene, fascination and horror keeping her eyes glued. The spikes slash at her belly now though, and she yelps, tearing her gaze away from Conquest and the mare.
She lashes out with her legs again, and then scrambles to her feet. She hears a rather satisfying crack and she stomps on a leg of the badger. His leg snaps, flesh tearing away from the bone. The badger doesn’t seem to feel it, but of course, the army from hell wouldn't feel pain. But the badger can’t move as well now, and she’s able to dash away from it.
But the next shadow that looms over her is far larger than the badger. She turns around in time to see the bear with his metal skin. Oh. This time she screams as loud as she can, doing the one thing she can think to do. “WARSHIP!” Because she may be able to fight off a badger, but a bear? There is nothing she can do but roll over an die. Or run.
She’d rather play coward and run, so she does. She takes off, hoping the shard is still where she saw it before. The shadows looms over her still. She can’t outrun a bear. She can feel it behind her, getting closer. Imagines that paw raised with claws ready to kill. But just as she thinks this will be her last breath, the shadow of the bear disappears from behind her. She tries to look, and thinks that perhaps she sees a flash of black. Warship. Did he save her?
But she doesn’t have time to turn and look. She can’t stop running, can’t risk getting attacked by the anything else. Something breezes by behind her, and she sees rotting flesh trailing behind it. Conquest doesn’t stop, doesn’t seem interested in her. But he didn’t need to stop. He'd brushed against her side as he went, and that was enough.
Her head starts pounding almost immediately, her the edges of her vision blurring. She slows to a stop, clenching her eyes shut. Heat seems to be flooding through her, far more than it should despite all the fighting. Something is wrong. Her knees are weak, and no longer just from Conquest’s desire to destroy them all. She wants to flop to the ground, just curl up and stay there.
But she opens her eyes instead, squinting, looking for that damn shard. And it’s there. Just a few steps in front of her. There’s a second shard only a few feet past the first. “Warship!” she yells, the effort causing her head to pound in her skull. She shuts her eyes again, willing her legs to just move forward. One step, then another.
She has no idea if Warship heard her, or knew that she was trying to point him toward the second shard. Maybe he’s already found one anyway. She couldn’t bring herself to look around though, to try and find him. She can only hope he heard. She peeks her eyes open, the pounding in her head relaxing for a moment. There! The shard. Despite the fever and the pain and the cuts all over her skin, she smiles just a bit as she puts a hoof down on the shard.
weaver
weed and straia's chamber princess