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The hand keeps moving, signaling off each minute that passes. Itâs ticking filling the silence that resides in the nearly empty, and incredibly bland, interrogation room. Itâs perfectly square and spacious with its walls, ceiling and floor made of concrete; the only things of interest here is the simplistic circular clock on the northern wall, a metallic slab being utilized as a table in the centre with runic etchings creating a border and a single large white crystal embedded into the ceiling casting a whitewash onto the room.
Three people are present here, utilizing the room in a very inactive way as they sit here in tensed silence. Not a word escapes them to break the monotonous ticking, the sound just substantiating the stiff atmosphere that has been created. Two of the three people sits before the one, the pristine metal table being the only thing between them that is more tangible than their hostile energy.
The mood shifts slightly as movement is made, a man who appears to be in his prime leans back into his chair letting the stale light fall harshly onto his face giving him the appearance of a gargoyle. A look that is only encouraged and enhanced by the void that are his grey eyes and the wrinkles around them that look like cracks in stone. His hands move to the pocket of his tailored pants to conjure up a joint in one hand and then a stout, cylindrical wooden gadget that has a faint glowing rock embedded into the side of it in the other. In one motion he puts the joint into his mouth and presses onto the rock of the gadget, allowing a sharp crack to cut through the air and powder blue smoke to delicately fall off the end of the joint.
Apparently this action from the old man is a stimulant for the much younger man beside him; he presses his forearms on the reflective table, leaning far on them so that he could stare at the girl in front. The hard look that forms on his face is unsettling, as if he isnât the kind of man to express such harshness with his perfectly sculpted nose, his arched and angular eyebrows, and his clefted chin. That the brown eyes of his were meant for warmth and comfort as opposed to malice - intentions of the worse kind. His whole form looks to be moulded and touched upon by ethereal entities for no other explanation can be given in regards of how perfect and balanced his whole being is. He looks to be created for only the pure things of this world, for only the kind, yet he is here with coldness in his eyes, tension in his shoulders. Such a counter to his friend beside him who continues to smoke from his joint, relaxed.
The young man parts his lips, just enough for a soft melody with a razor sharpness to float out.
âAnswer the question.â
The girl sitting on the receiving end of the command is far younger and far different than the elders before her, her whole existence- image- juxtaposing the immaculate and statuesque features of the two men. The crimson essence of a person paints the left side of her body, taints the ripped and dishevelled clothes she wears. Her thick blonde hair is gathered up in a poor excuse of a bun with small shards of blue glass poking out from the strands like crumbling gravestones in a cemetery. However the state of appearance is not what makes her so curious and is not what makes her so distinct from the two men opposite her, itâs the very noticeably small threesome of triangles emerging from her hairline on her left temple, faint dots trail the outer line of it and draw attention to her mismatch eyes as they curve under it. The one closest to the marking is a soft, warm amber and the eye furthest away is a cold and icy blue. But while both eyes are different colours they remain the same in how they lack any emotion; well any emotion relating to fear that is.
âPrincess?â She speaks in a soft tone but her voice trips over the word, hinting at weakness. âDonât know about any princess.â
Not a muscle moves in the ethereal manâs face, his brown eyes glint like the ones of a reptile being the only sign that the answer brings him a kind of displeasure and frustration. However, his colleague remains to be as impassive as ever; still giving off an air that this situation is one of importance yet allowing one to think that this is a special case and can take its time- answers arenât required just yet.
The gargoyle puts the joint back to his lips and slowly draws it away, blue smoke dribbling down his chin as he stares at the girl. He reaches for something hidden, fishing for yet another object that he then places on the table and slides it over to the girl.
âNow, now.â He says, gravel in his voice, âletâs not just skip to the end, we need to go the beginning. Now, my dear, do you mind telling me what exactly this is?â
She stares at him for a little, watching as the smoke twists and dances all the way down. She slowly turns her eyes onto what has been now presented to her- a small piece of paper with blotches of colour on it arranged to be representative of an event, a person. Even though the objects are not all that distinct it was enough to gather a fountain of knowledge from.
The shades of green that make up the background with the pinpricks of colour is familiar enough to the girl to understand when and where this had been taken, and the short figure dressed in their peculiar outfit thatâs standing next to her did well to inform her about what exactly she will be questioned about. Despite that knowledge she still canât help but feel emotion; she draws in a breath out of shock and her hands tremble slightly as a memory of that time flash into her mind.
The gargoyle looks at her still, a small smile shifts the cracks in his face and a glimmer of knowing fills his void eyes. He leans back into his chair allowing his colleague to question her.
âItâs from your solace of the sixth month, yes?â
The girl says nothing, she just lowers her eyes and clasps her hands.
âThatâs when you got those beads of yours too isnât it?â He refers to the blue shards of glass on her head and she cringes as if their fragments are piercing her now. âWould you like to tell us about that event?â
Not a sound escapes her, she just proceeds to sit there and stare at her hands as if that will make an improvement on her situation. But itâs clear that she has used that tactic one too many times already in this encounter for the ethereal man is showing his impatience with how quick he ends the silence and how there was a melody of harshness to his words.
âFine, letâs just go through our list that we have on the event, shall we?â He brings out a scroll and rolls it out on the table, reading the words scribed there. âOn the Sixth day of the Sixth month, upon the week of the Solace festival in Elvania, in which all six tribes came together for said festivities, Alliane Jarlinunth- of tribe Jarlin was bequeathed her ancestral beads as well as thirty other females and thirty males whom have reached their seventeenth solune. In attendance of this festival, and seen interacting with residences of the tribe Jarlin days previous to the day that is being mentioned, was Stateldrin Valoss of Dhemit  whom has been convicted of one Dhemit felony, committed his first international felon and thereby his second felony overall as of that time on the eve of this Sixth day of the Sixth month with the aid of Alliane Jarlinunth-â
âI didnât help him,â she whispers, she looks up slightly at the men before her, maintaining eye contact with the ethereal. âI didnât do anything, it was him.â
âIs that so?â
âYes.â
âThen explain.â
She looks back down, her hands now beginning to shake and tremble as she looks back on that day. She didnât do anything, she knows that. She would have never done those types of things, it was all him.
She shuts her eyes and takes in a deep breath, trying to calm her quickening heart as she recalls that day.
This is an extract written for the Writeworld prompt 'Through the curling flames rising from the ship, he caught sight of a familiar dark head of hair and a broad, confident grin.' It is an extract from a larger story, the first part of which can be read here.
I'd really appreciate some reads. If you're a fan of fantasy you may well like what you find.
They dragged him on board, throwing him roughly to the filthy deck. He tried to rise and caught a boot in the ribs for his trouble. The rest of the crew gathered round, looking down on him. He stayed still, waiting for the signal, waiting for a sign that Farkas hadnât let him down.
Someone gripped his hair roughly and forced him to look up. The face in front of him had rotten brown and black teeth, straggly hair hanging in greasy lengths on his face. âWho are you?â
âIâm surprised you donât recognise me,â he said with his smuggest grin. âYour mother should have mentioned me, the number of times Iâve seen her.â
That earned him a hard slap, the rings on the manâs fingers cutting his cheek. He was dragged back up and the man spat in his face. âWho are you?â
âAdmiral Ranflaw, Enstrait navy, and you are?â
The men started kicking him, a dozen blows to his chest and back that he bore easily. They werenât trying to kill him yet. Once more he was dragged up. âWho are you?â
âCaptain Corrin Black-Reeve. Maybe youâve heard of me?â
That earned him another slap, and a derisive laugh. âYou are trying my patience. Tell me who you are?â
âI already did you ignorant thug. I am Captain Corrin, the Black Reave. King of the Banelanâs Spine, Sacker of Anchor Thom. Tell your captain, he will know my name.â
âBeldon?â One of the pirates above him spoke, sounding uncertain.
The man holding Corrin grunted and looked up at his man. âThe Black Reave is a myth. A pirateâs bedtime story.â He shook Corrinâs head. âYou think this piece of filth is he?â
âWell if I am youâre in trouble,â he said.
âShut up.â
He saw a flicker of light from the corner of his eye. The explosion of a firework high above the city. âActually I think itâs about time for you to shut up,â he said, and grinned. âBut Iâll see you on the other side, in a good few years. If youâre still angry, you can take it up with me then.â
The ship was blasted across the water by a massive explosion. Every man on the deck was thrown to his feet. Corrin took advantage of the chaos to slip out of his shackles, which he had of course picked moments after they were put on. He used the heavy metal cuffs to club Beldon hard in the head, hard enough to fracture his skull. He beat him again anyway, just to be sure, and took his sword off the body. Drawing it from its scabbard he turned to see the other pirates getting back to their feet. Before they could even finish standing he was upon them, striking several of them dead before they even realised what was going on. The few who drew swords were easily dispatched.
The rest of the crew was piling onto the deck though, rushing up from below to see what had caused the explosion. He turned to face them, raising his sword and beckoning with his other hand. Several of the drew their own swords and charged him, but before they reached him another explosion from below blasted a hole in the deck and sent them scattering overboard. Corrin was staggered by the blast, but he kept his feet as the ship began to sink rapidly. The ship shuddered as it dug into the sand just beneath the waves, sending the final few pirates rolling down towards the bow.
The deck was still just above the water line, but it was low enough that the waves lapping at the hull came close to flooding it anyway. With two holes in the hull the water would be flooding in, meaning it was only a matter of time beforeâŚ
Through the curling flames rising from the ship, he caught sight of a familiar dark head of hair and a broad, confident grin. âHello Corrin.â
âLytton.â He growled it through clenched teeth, his jaw near shaking from how tightly it was gritted. âFinally.â
âYou know.â The man was the picture of arrogance, even as he strode through the burning remains of his ship. âI really would have thought youâd have let this go by now.â
âYou killed her.â
For a moment, a single moment, the mask slipped, and he looked at Corrin with ugly hate in his eyes. âIâve killed hundreds boy.â And then it was gone, the smile back in place. âOne whore makes no difference in the final judgement.â
This isnât your final judgement. This is me. And it meant everything to me.â
âSo what? You wasted three years of your life on a quest to do what? One pirate killing another wonât bring justice. Killing me wonât bring her back.â He fixed Corrin with a hard look. âIs that whatâs got you vexed? That you know, deep down inside, that youâre not killing me for her? Or for any noble cause? Youâre killing me because you donât know anything else.â
âIâm killing you because youâre a murderer. Filth fit only for the pits.â
âAnd what are you, Corrin, the Black-Reave?â He made it a taunt. âIâm sure that you earned that name only through the kindest of exploits.â
âI am nothing like you.â
âAs you say.â Lytton drew his sword, a long curved cutlass that he clearly knew how to use. He held it before himself and leaned back into a formal duelling stance. Corrin had no idea where he might have learned it. âI doubt anything I say would matter to you now.â
Corrin fell into his own stance. His breath was calm and even now as he watched for the first movements from his foe. His blade glistened in the firelight, and the smoke curling between them made his eyes sting. But nothing could distract from his absolute focus, and he saw that same determination in Lyttonâs eyes.