The Greater Fool

I thought I’d do something different today (and I’ll explain why tomorrow, in a post). I’d like to show y’all how my epic fantasy novel, Blood of the Bull starts. So, without further delay, allow me to present: Saelin Tauvar.

Grief moved into Villa Tauvar as an uninvited, unwelcome guest. It took up residence in the hallowed halls, sat at the table when time came for breakfast, and listened in on every hushed whisper. The corridors became quiet, and the servants weary. Color slowly faded from the world.

Saelin Tauvar stood in her room, fully dressed for the occasion, wrapped in a blood-red silk dress, and tried to hush the guilty whispers. They refused to leave her alone these past few days, always reminding her how soon she might wear those robes again – that time, crying tears of true heartbreak.

She took a deep breath, and steeled her nerves. If her worries would leave her alone for just a few hours, only to present the image she wanted…That would make her father proud. He may have turned to Leyan’s Hallowd Spirits, but they never lifted vigil from their own bloodlines.

That, Saelin grimaced, might be a bad thing.

There was an ivory mirror on her nightstand, and she used it to make sure her appearance was alright. Her mane of red hair did not fall out of the carefully arranged mass, nor did the robe reveal more than was appropriate for a young lady in these circles. Content with that, she raised her chin, and marched out of the room.

Two guards flanked her immedietly, clad in the most expansive armor and weaponry money could buy. Ever since her father’s passing, Saelin doubled the security of their ancestral home. She knew Leyan well enough, and a young woman, living alone, her brother waging war in a far-off land…that would be too great a temptation for some lowly family, hoping to climb higher on the social ladder. Or maybe one of the more powerful ones, hoping to eliminate hers.

The guests were already gathering in the paved courtyard. The moon shone down upon them, helping the number of braziers to illuminate those gathered. She knew most of them already – men of great importance, and their wives, almost nameless by comparison. Most of them hated her father, and yet came to mourn the great man’s passing.

Or to make sure he is dead, Saelin thought bitterly.

All in this world operate in cycles. The sun rises in the morning and sets when darkness claims the place of light. Seasons pass and come again. A person is born, lives, and dies, before they could truly realize their potential.

Why would it be different for Empires?

Portophala is an ancient city. So ancient, that its founding is lost, and not even myths of it survive. Kings, whose names now echo empty, once ruled from this sprawling metropolis, located atop a plateau. By their tireless work, Portophala became what it is today: the crossroads between the eats and the west, between north and south. No trader can even think of coming from the lands of the sunrise without passing through Portophala.

Six empires had come before, each making the city their home. Three of them are known from legends only. Some say the last of their kings buried his city, so that the pretenders seeking to overthrow him would never conquer this jewel of his crown. Some say it is not the original Portophala that now serves as a center of yet another empire, but that it has been built atop the buried city. It is but a tale, and a tall one of that – yet, one sometimes sees men and women squeezing themselves through cracks in rocks and walls, their clothes torn, their faces gaunt. There are no poor in Portophala. Where do these people come from then?

The King of Kings cares little for them. He remains tucked away in his Palace of Eternity, a city within the city. Here, he is surrounded by the brightest minds of a generation: exiles from far-off lands, hunted for their beliefs, dreams, and ideas. They all come to Portophala to live under the protection of a god who walks the earth. Why would a being so wise and powerful need so many advisors? For he listens to them. Many think these foreigners are the ones steering the ship of the state. A few care – Portophala remains rich and strong, and while that is the case, it does not matter who leads.

But in the darkness beneath the city, things are quite different. The destitute huddle in slime-covered refuges, asking why their gods have abandoned them. When a creature unlike any they had seen before came to preach to them, a creature of metal and lights, instead of blood and flesh, they listened. They listened when he spoke of the Lady, the creator of all. They listened when he had called them children of the lady, and promised them a return to her benevolent embrace.

They listened when he called for the blood of the unbelieving.

Character reveal: Blood of the Bull

Xenia kissed the servant girl, pulling her closer to herself. She came eagerly, giggling lightly. The scent of oil emitting from her skin was so strong now, it clouded whatever was left of Xenia’s judgement.

And that’s when the cough sounded.

The girl tore herself away, looking around guiltily. Xenia moaned in displeasure, shooting her eyes at the third woman standing in the doorway, a stoic expression prevalent on her face. Her presence seemed to dominate the room – just like any other that Coria, Queen of Korvas graced with her presence.

“You may leave,” she shot at the servant girl, who scurried away. Then she shook her head. “I looked everywhere for you. And here I find you, my supposed bodyguard.”

Xenia took it silently. She knew how it went by now – Coria was disappointed in her, Coria would chastise her. She could not let her go, the oath her ancestors swore to the queen’s family cut both ways. The Immortal Guard would stay by their side. But the knowledge did not make it easier to suffer her pompous arrogance.

“I have an important task for you,” Coria said, walking closer. “One that does not involve desecrating a temple.”

“What difference does it make if I fuck one of the servants?” Xenia snapped. “This place has not been a temple in…”

“It was sanctified for the Goddess of the River, and no matter what those barbarians did, it won’t change that,” Coria answered, leveling her gaze on Xenia.

Xenia stared back. There were more and more moments like these – tense, anger flaring within her with each passing moment. Just remembering the old times, when they were children softened it, but the more she used the technique of recalling an ancient memory, the less effective it seemed to become. Once, they were friends. But since the coup, and especially in these past few days, since these Leyanese came around with their army, Coria has been a changed person.

No, Xenia thought. It would be a mistake to lay it all on the past months. Coria has been changing gradually, ever since the priests took her, and did not allow Xenia to follow. Ever since they took her to the south. Since she came back, she was no longer the friend she grew up with. She was changed, and she was not. But every day, the old Coria faded a little, and something else, somebody else, wise and imperious seemed to take her place.

“Of course, my queen,” Xenia said, bowing, preferring to avoid a fight. The memories helped. This time. “What is it you desire of me?”

“The barbarian, Caommar, how travels with the Leyanese army, is sent on a mission,” Coria explained. “Was he to go alone, he will undoubtedly perish in the desert. I do not wish that to happen. The man in crude, but he still has uses. So I am sending you with him.”

“Coria, my place is with you!” Xenia cried out, forgetting all formality.

“Your place is where I send you,” Coria corrected her. “You are an instrument of my retribution. Is that not what you swore to become the night we watched my baby brother slaughtered, my mother’s throat slashed, and my father’s head mounted on a bull’s shoulders? Or am I mistaken, Xenia?”

She swallowed, and looked at her. There were no emotions in her voice as she listed the horrific crimes done against her family. It was as if a historian, or a philosopher argued them, and not the last drop of blood the once mighty rulers had remaining.

“It is, but…”

“There is no place for argument here,” Coria said, raising her hand. “You will go, and ensure that his quest is successful. And when you are done, you will return to my side. Great days are coming, my friend. Days you will want to be present for.”

Xenia bowed her head and rushed out of the room, trying hard not to associate those last words to the days gone past.

We’re closing in on finishing with this setting, and I’ve thought maybe I could help speed things along. Plus, it was an interesting challenge to showcase two characters in the same drabble. Tell me what you guys think!

Tagging: @proseweaver @inexorableblob @crypticsx @jltillary

Captain Aural had a distaste for the desert. He was a man of refined tastes: of wine, of conversations, of men and women enjoying themselves at his home in Leyan. This city had none of that. It was crude, plain, its ancient stoned speaking not of history, but weariness. Some of that he could have forgiven. They were under siege, after all. But the heat killed off any desire in him to be understanding, and left the man with worry.

Not like he needed much to be concerned these days. Things were going wrong in a rapid succession.

He walked into the corner-chamber. The painted walls gave way to plain, brown sand-stone, but at least the pillars running along the edges, serving as substitutes for walls allowed the air to flow a little. The massive stone slab around which the army’s leaders – and that accursed queen – used to gather lay in the center. A man was standing beside it, and as Aural entered, he looked up.

“You got my message, Commander,” he said.

“I am not the Commander. That title belongs to Ennarim Tauvar…”

“Wherever he may be right now. By all intents and purposes, Aural, you are the one who has to make the hard decisions now.”

Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at one of the strangest characters I’ve got running around in Blood of the Bull. Tell me what you think about him?

Tagging: @proseweaver @inexorableblob @crypticsx @jltillary

There was no reason to disturb the circles.

Machinery purred endlessly, a simple distraction in the back of his mind. Number Five walked along the edges of the room, occasionally stopping, gazing upon the many whirring parts, then resuming his vigil. For thousands of years, he did this every cycle, once at the very least. The Lady had entrusted him with his complex, and he was not going to disappoint her.

He was made to not disappoint her.

She was there when he had first gained consciousness. His first memory was her face: pale, sickly, but lit up with such joy…She was so little back then. She needed a friend. And so Number Five and his brothers were made to keep her company on the long voyages into the unknown darkness that lay beyond the skies.

It felt hazy now – faded, old, as memories of over millennia should feel –, but her last words to him still stood out.

“You are to stand at the Cradle,” she told him, “for if they ever need help, my friend, it will be you they shall turn to.”

Number Five did not know if anybody will turn to him for help. For all he knew, the Grand Experiment has failed already. he had not seen the sun, nor any of the subjects in as long as he had been down here. And it has been a very, very long time. They were organic creatures. Strange, made of flesh and blood. Complex, in their own ways – he would know, he helped in their design.

He was keenly aware of the shirring sound his joints made whenever he made a step. He had not even tilted his head in a while. He would have to perform routine maintenance, maybe apply the salve himself…It was an ugly procedure, but one had to do it, and Number Five was all Number Five had.

I am back! And with a new character to reveal from Blood of the Bull! I’m not sure how frequently, but these ones are msot definetly going to continue. Especially because the next one is...let’s say it will be out there.

Ennarim hit the ground with a yelp, managing to swallow his cry of pain. His arm twisted under him, and he rolled quickly to the side, before pressure could build up. He felt the numb pain spread along his bones, but at least he avoided the sickening crack of it breaking.

Saelin chuckled, the sickening sound making Ennarim even angrier. He caught his father flash an eye at the girl, and she shut up. Good, Ennarim thought. I hope you choke on it.

He pushed himself up with a grunt, nursing his numb hand. The sword felt heavier than before. Wood should never have been this much a burden to swing or parry with, but Ennarim did not complain. Not out loud. He raised his wounded arm, stretching it out, pointing the wooden blade towards the approaching barbarian. It would have been a defiant picture, he imagined, had his arm not been trembling so badly.

Then the barbarian stopped.

“Come on, Ennarim hissed through his teeth. “Come at me, you damned savage…”

Caommar looked at him, as if he could hear his words. He did speak Leyanese, but Ennarim did not think he heard him. Why was he hesitating then? He had to know he would win any fight, he always did…

“That’s enough,” his father boomed. “We’re done for today.”

Ennarim swallowed the bitter shame as he left the field, gripping the hilt of his wooden sword tighter just so he would not drop it by accident. He hated this, he hated the sand that got stuck between his toes in the small arena, the soreness that took over his body after every day, never healing…and he hated that savage, that intruder in his home. He had not right to beat a Leyanese noble so brutally every day, yet, his father did nothing to stop him.

And, though even the thought filled him with horror, Ennarim hated his father too.

He stormed into the house, and away from them all. He could still hear Saelin’s snickering in his ears. Stupid little girl, so infatuated with that mongrel, instead of knowing where her loyalties should lie…

he collapsed onto his bed, the slight creaking noise grinding against his mind. He shifted to the side that did not hurt. His room was cold, and empty, and no sound was heard but his own, quiet whimpering. He tried to steel himself, to swallow the humiliation, just as he did before, but it was so much harder now, when he was alone.

Part of him wished he could have talked to Iuvan. He recalled his brother being a wise man for his young age – but, of course, he was not so wise in the end. Had he been, Ennarim would not be in this situation today. he would not be beaten relentlessly, he would not be expected to memorize the lives of great men who lived in ages past, and the battles they fought. Had Iuvan not been so stupid, Ennarim would be happy.

One day, he thought bitterly, I will be the lord of this household. And that day they will pay. All of them will pay.