Things in this story are
not canon
. They are not meant to be. I do hope you enjoy it.
(
There is a "
Terms explained
" at the end of the chapter for unfamiliar words, language translation, and specific term usage.
)
This is the beginning of Æiristus' (drow) and Silwynn's (sylvan elf) story - it has more of an erotic lean to it now than originally intended, but it works
. •
It is "understood" that because of their cruelty and unfamiliarity to emotions like love drow
do not
bond.
Surface-world elves, on the other hand, choose to
bond
when they find the mate they wish to
join with
for the rest of their lives. Through an accident of fate, these two
get
spiritually
bonded
and, like it or not, they must learn to deal with it. There are many obstacles that interfere with not only the journey of learning to manage the situation, but in any final admission and acceptance of it as well. How far will
bonded
blood enemies get without killing each other? If you're interested read on…
Feedback is always welcome. This is the beginning of a novel and I can use the input. Thanks! -GildedLily
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Chapter 01: The Templar
Two large, stub-tailed lizards, beasts of burden with their dull-eyes cupped by forward-looking blinders pulled a noisy, black steel prison cart slowly along its path to the occupant's final destination. A woman of lustrous skin, the color of midnight shadows, walked along side the cart, her strides resolute and confident, that of a militant. Black chain mail, the finest made by dark elven hands, draped over powerful shoulders and a strong core. The metal rattled in whispers over black leather armor that sheathed her like a second skin. Such a suit of mail was meant to be difficult to see in the subterranean darkness as well as permit its wearer reasonable freedom of movement. She wore it like a badge of hard won honor. An honor that matched the scarlet sash around her slim waist and the curved weapon at her side and sharpened metal spurs at her booted heals.
What could be a lush, naturally red-violet mouth was a solid line of military bearing set in an angular elven face, the corners tipped neither up nor down. A long severe plait of moonlight silver trailed down her back from the crown of her head. Glistening bangs, the only bit of fluff the woman appeared to have, arched and wisped about wide nocturnal eyes, narrowed in concentration. The thick rope of her hair swept the middle of her back reaching below the curves of her backside hidden by the skirt of armor.
The soldier-at-arms kept her face forward, indifferent to the jeers of the hateful masses toward her captive within the cart. Her prisoner was
og'elend
: a dissident, a traitor to his people. Worse, he was a disciple of a forbidden god. It was the woman's sacred duty to capture the heretics of her society and return them to serve penitence for their actions.
The circumstances behind the captive's dilemma were unimportant. This one being of nobility was to be made example. He was to be terminated under the conditions of death by sacrifice—tortured sacrifice. Nobles lived and died by example. They had to. Templars, soldiers of the faith and students of tradition, like the black-clad woman, were empowered to make certain of it. And, like so many dissidents before him, this one did not take well to his circumstances. He damned the pitiless female. Spitting curses, both heartfelt and magical, fighting her every wretched step of the way of his return to DarkRealm far beneath the surface of a bright world he had barely gotten a glimpse of during his flight. Had the prisoner been of the warrior caste the guardian woman could have looked forward to at least a final challenge by combat. Such was not the case however, making the veteran all the more frigid.
Eventually, the small caravan stopped. Two females, each as equally dark-skinned as their faith appointed woman-at-arms stepped toward the guardian. Resplendent in their locally spun silks of black, green and silver, they represented the sanctioned authority of the church. Silver plates sewn onto the hem of their robes and skirts sounded off like miniature chimes at their sandaled feet announcing their arrival. Headdresses of fine platinum added to the women's air of authority heralding finality. Their headdresses, crafted to resemble the snarling heads and writhing tentacles of dark monsters from nightmares of long ago, held the women's faintly animated manes of white hair away from their inky faces. One female bore a tasseled scroll, the other, a carved ebony serpentine staff. The length of the vile staff was twisted and coiled. Its likeness was of a great serpent being devoured by a host of spiders at its head, all with glittering eyes of ruby stones and fangs of ivory, giving it the impression that it would come to life - suffering - at the priestess' whim.
The women of the clerical sect acknowledged the return of the templar. The woman holding the staff gazed down upon the warrior female. Her eyes burned a bright crimson. Her bearing severe with long accustomed authority. She inclined her head almost imperceptibly. "House Sergeant Vrynn," her voice possessed the firm tones of political influence. "The temple extends Our congratulations on your success and Our gratitude on the recovery of the prisoner back to the lands of his crimes."
Æiristus Vrynn, youngest daughter of the lead family of Clan Vrynn, an affluent but politically unimportant merchant clan, wrapped her off-hand around the hilt of her preferred weapon, a
khepshi
, its blade nearly the length of her leg. It was a modified sickle-shaped sword seemingly too large for someone of her diminutive frame. She responded with a humble bow of respect grasping the blade she swore by. Those few accompanying her stayed their positions, tending the beasts of burden or carefully monitoring crowd and captive alike, ever wary of threats from within and without the crowd.
"We will accept the
og'elend
now," the priestess said. "Will you be attending the ceremony this eve, Medjai?" she asked, recognizing Æiristus with the warrior's official station.
