#ejava

I brought a with me a weight; the simple Hornless ran at my heels, my wily hound!

We took stock of all we had to do!

And the dangers to defeat!

But my hound lost his nerve, scared we wouldn't be able to escape from the murky, sewage-filled home of the greedy, traitorous Exiles!

In the end, my brilliance and genius led us to our escape!

Behind us, Thayd lies in ruins!

“ROSTINE!”

Gentle daylight pierced the stained-glass windows, scattering brilliant reds and golds and greens across the master bedroom.  It was probably close to noon, based on the angles.  Whoever’d used the bed last left chaos in their wake, and it was all tangled sheets and nested pillows.  Wait — did the pile just stir?  Was there actually someone under there?

”LORD ROSTINE!  SHOW YOURSELF, COWARD!”

The exquisite double doors were practically thrown off their hinges.  ”Kyner!” hissed Ejava, skittering across the floor.  Her tail swept away discarded clothing as she went.  “Kyner!  What are you doing?”

“Mm.”  A pale limb jutted out of the bed’s dressings; a miscalculated kick.

”Get up!” she snarled, starting to claw at the thick comforter.  “They’re here, you idiot!”

The comforter snagged under some resistance.  “Who’s here?” it seemed to murmur, retreating back to the center of the bed.

“The Draken!”  She redoubled her efforts.

A pillow was disturbed, revealing a glimpse of white hair.  He quickly tugged it back in place.  “Your sisters?”

“No!  The Draken from last night!  The ones you said were weaned on Aurin milk as pups!”  Her face twisted in frustration and poorly masked contempt.  “Or did you forget about that with all you had to drink?”

The pile gave a noncommittal sound.  “… have Xocoyol tell them to leave.  Or do it yourself.”

”Kyyyyner,” she whined, thumping the linens with her fists.  That elicited another groan.  “They insulted my honor!  You must destroy them.”

He sighed.  “I can’t.  I’m hungover, and I have a headache.”

“You always have a headache!”  She walloped the spot she thought his head may have been with a throw pillow.  “GET OUT OF BED YOU ANEMIC LITTLE WORM!”

A gangly figure tumbled out of bed, presumably in an attempt to escape her wrath.  Kyner screwed his eyes up tight again the light; his head felt like it was going to split open.  “I’m up,” he muttered.

A trio of Draken stood on the immaculately groomed lawn.  Their bodies hung with heavy ropes of muscle, and their weapons were great and forged from the bones of great beasts.  When their hosts stepped out to meet them, they exchanged glances and snickered amongst themselves.

Ejava was as beautiful, lively, and spiteful as ever, but the man she was propping up at her side looked even more pathetic than he had the night before.  His white hair was long and wild — though it somehow still managed to hide his right eye perfectly — and his angular face was rough with two days’ stubble.  He only wore a pair of pants and a cloak over his shoulders, apparently not having the time or coordination to get fully dressed, and he barely seemed capable of walking a straight line.  The ensemble did a woefully poor job of masking his physical deficiencies.

“Lord Rostine,” grumbled the head of this pack, who had massive horns and a tally scratched into his right pauldron.  It was fairly extensive, as far as tallies went.  “Good of you to join us.  Perhaps you are not a coward and simply a fool; or did the woman you are so clearly undeserving of drag you out here, to salvage what is left of her dignity?”

Ejava flashed a viper’s smile at them.  “Insolent whelps!  Cretins!  Fucking fools, all of you.”  She traced the tips of her claws along the Cassian’s slender chest.  “Ejava of Dunemaw and Kyner of Rostine do not suffer threats from mewling little salamanders.  Make demands of us, and you will only get your bloody, still-beating heart in your hand as a reply.”

The troupe didn’t seem terribly impressed; in fact, the one farthest in the back barked out a genuine and very ugly laugh.  Ejava’s hand vanished inside the cloak and withdrew a medishot.  She jabbed it into Kyner’s neck, engaged the delivery mechanism, and the 20 milliliters of clear fluid were gone in a soft hiss.  Then she shoved him forward with both hands, and he barely caught his balance in time.

The Draken seemed unsure of what to make of all this — was she offering him up as a sacrifice, or something?  Their leader grinned and hoisted his sword, and then it was no longer in his hands — no, it was orbiting around the Cassian’s wrist, like an oddly shaped, fine-edged satellite.  He’d called it there, beckoned it with a finger, and it’d been like pulling an invisible string.  Both the lackeys gaped as Kyner rotated it in smooth circles, tilting his hand, as if testing the weight of the six-foot sword.

“You… you feeble little… human.”  Rage painted the Draken’s features as he bared his sizeable teeth.  “We will break your bones!  We will drink your blood!  We will take your wards for ourselves!  And when there is nothing left of you but your wretched, stinking soul, even that we will commit to Shezka for a millenium of torment!”  He roared, flinging spittle in every direction.  “GIVE ME BACK MY BLADE.”

Behind Kyner, Ejava hopped from one foot to the next, bristling with anticipation.  She looked very excited about something.  “Here,” said Kyner, his tone disinterested and distant.  “Have it.”

He made a sweeping upward gesture with his arm, and it all went away.  The Draken, his sword, Kyner’s cloak — the nearby bushies, potted plants, cobblestones — all of it rocketed skyward, first tens, then hundreds of feet into the air.  A series of intricate gestures brought the massive weapon to life, and as they soared, it indulged its violent desires against the helpless forms of its master and his clanmates.

What returned to the ground was mostly gore and property damage, along with the scattered weapons and armor.  Their leader was still alive, and for a brief moment, Kyner held sympathy for him.  That was not a clean cut.  Apparently he really did have a lot to drink last night, not that he remembered much of it.  He stalked forward and knelt next to the mostly-held-together Draken.

“Dominus calls your spirit home,” he said, and placed a cool hand on the scaly forehead.  It was covered in sweat.  Kyner knew the look in his eyes — that reckoning of one’s own end.  “Will you take His hand?”

“G-Go… to… hell,” groaned the Draken, and spit his lifeblood in the Cassian’s face.  When he reached up to wipe his face with a bare hand, effectively smearing it across his features, he caught a glimpse of his other eye… except an eye it no longer was, ruined, and all his hair seemed to hide now were a trio of scars that looked like stalker claws.

“Very well.  May your gods be more merciful than I.”  He broke his neck with the snap of his fingers.

“YESSSSSS!”  Ejava howled from where she’d been standing, about ten yards away.  “NEVER FUCK WITH US!  NEVER FUCK WITH USSSS!”  She clapped her hands and sneered at the groundskeeper who appeared, visibly shaken.  “You.  Clean all this up.”  She gestured vaguely to the assorted viscera and ran over to embrace Kyner, where they shared a fierce — if brief — kiss.

Then he slipped away from her, and began to hobble back toward the manor house.  “Where are you going?” asked Ejava with a blink.  “Going to get washed up, I hope.  We have a function in two hours.”