Young Writers Society

He remembered nothing of how he woke up; one minute, he had been floating in lethargic darkness, and the next, he was looking up at the ceiling of a softly lit room.

It took a moment for the rest of his awareness to return, and when it did, he realized the snug warmth of the blanket laid over him and the cool air coming from the air vents overhead. There was a weariness at the fringes of his perception, probably the remains of some fever, but apart from that he felt better – almost whole.

Where am I? The question bubbled into existence within his mind.

In answer, he raised himself up with his elbows as a support base. Slowly, he got himself into a sitting position on the bed with a grunt, and looked around. The room was fairly large, had no windows, and lacked the antiseptic smell that was characteristic of hospitals. Neither were there any shamanic sigils on the walls, ceiling or floor…at least, none that he could see with his naked eyes. He fished his hands out from underneath the blanket and examined them for any slave brands or surgery marks, but found none. Good, he thought. I still have my free will.

It was only then that he noticed the other occupant in the room; she was in a large armchair at the foot of the bed, bundled in a nest of pillows and a large turquoise blanket. She was a small creature, almost fragile looking, and looked to be about twelve winters of age even though her slender body had started ripen. She had long silky straight green hair, and the tips of her pointy ears poked through it.

She was fast asleep, her small mouth slightly agape.

He stared at the stranger for a minute, then proceeded to ease himself quietly out of the bed. With each movement, he found his strength returning and his body settling into a state of…readiness, one could call it. Like the controlled power and fluidity of a tiger or a gryphon. He made about as much noise as a leaf falling on a pool of water as he stood up, and a quick glance gave him confidence that the girl wasn’t going to wake anytime soon. Yet as he got to his feet, he felt a certain wooziness that swayed his balance.

Careful, easy, he reminded himself as he staggered forward, fighting off the threatening return of the weariness.

He made his way over to the window, which had the steel guard plates dropped in place over the glass. The dizzy spell attacked him, forcing his conscious vision into a tunnel with the window at the end of it. He fought it back, dimly noting the steel plates and the rhythmic thumping through the cold floor beneath him. A craft, an abstract, distant part of him remarked. I’m on a frakking aethercraft.

The journey to the window seemed to take a lifetime as the dizziness grew, and he felt a strange keening silence pressing down on his ears like some intangible howling wind that grew by the second-

“Fool.”

The voice was haughty, feminine and very familiar. He froze where he was, and haltingly turned around. There was a woman seated on his vacated bed, her long legs dangling over the edge of it. She wore a dark purple bodysuit under a silver and black tank top, with wedge heeled boots of a similar coloring to match. Long dark blonde hair fell around a heart shaped face with icy green eyes. She had light brown skin and was evidently human.

“Me…Megumi…”

He could feel an odd numbness creeping through his veins like ice.

The woman got up, eyeing him with a half-smile dancing at the corners of her shapely lips. “You were always too stubborn. Just like him.” She took a few steps towards him, the smile gradually fading all the while. At only three feet away, she stopped, pulling out a pistol from somewhere and leveling it at his chest. The keening noise grew louder.

“Megumi…why…?”

There was a coldness in her voice that could have frozen the Ifrit himself, and a look of utter distaste that sent a bolt of fear down his spine. “Stubborn fool. You should have stayed dead…Arba Lynch.”

She pulled the trigger, and Arba Lynch felt pain explode through his nerves like the flames of raging star.

She was nursing her drink when Fortuna’s Smile was invaded.

Shouts and cries erupted all around as the knights burst into the bar room with guns raised, barking orders from behind the opaque blankness of their visor helmets. She calmly took a sip of her ale as they took up positions around the room, blocking anyone from leaving. One guy, a brawny looking blonde, tried to reason it out with the knights, and got the butt end of a rifle in his face for his trouble. Idiot, she sneered inwardly as she took another sip while gazing out over the rim of her glass. Tom, the elderly bartender, and one other man came to pick up the blonde off the floor. Blood trickled freely from his nose, and there was a look of stunned shock on his face.

“Oi, what’s the meaning of this?” Tom yelled at the black armored knights.

As if in answer, the men at the door parted to the sides as a tall, imposing figure strode in. Unlike the rest, this knight’s armor was a polished silver and grey that was engraved with all manner of intricate symbols and sigils. In addition to the elegantly crafted pistol riding at his hip, there was a fine greatsword housed in a metallic harness that was part of the armor’s back. The sword’s bearer had his helmet off, leaving a broad, craggy face with deep shockingly blue eyes and short dark hair exposed to public view. The skin of his face was a dark indigo, with white tiger-like stripes. Dolomi, definitely, she thought. And judging by the absence of the antler horns that was the trademark of most of his kind, was a kanda; a third generation dolomi.

The dolomi knight came to halt at a table where a terrified couple was huddled. “Silence,” he commanded, and she found herself raising an eyebrow at his voice. For such a brutish looking person, he had a surprisingly gentle voice.

The room fell quiet in an instant. The knight nodded, satisfied, and said, “I am Misha. I’d like to apologise for this…intrusion. But time is of the essence that we find a certain someone who has been hiding amongst you on this craft.”

Styria Romiji took one final sip, then slammed the empty glass on her table hard enough to draw the attention of the knights. She took her time getting to her feet, savoring the attention somewhat. “You’re Orionoro Knights, right?”

The dolomi said nothing, but by the slight tightening around the corner of his eyes, Styria knew she had hit the jackpot.

“So that means you’re here to look for an escaped convict?”

A knight to her left took a step towards her. “Lady, you better sit-”

That was as far as he got before she rammed an elbow into his neck, pivoted and rammed the heel of her right hand into his chest, sending him flying one way and his firearm the other. She rotated her arms in their sockets, then glared at the lesser knights. “The next person to interrupt gets a broken jaw,” she threatened.

The dolomi shook his head ruefully. He walked up to her table with a neutral expression on his visage.

“You’re right on one count, madam; we are knights from the Black Prison. But we’re not here to find a convict.”

Styria raised an eyebrow at that. She crossed her arms under her breasts as she said, “Oh, really? Then why board this good-for-nothing aethercraft anyway?”

“We’re here to find a…guest of our Commander.” He tilted his head to the side, staring curiously at her. “Perhaps you might know of him…his name is Arba Lynch.”

She felt her hands curling into fists at the mention of the name. A growl escaped her before she could compose herself sufficiently to answer. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Funny thing is, I’m also looking for him too…so that I can rip his heart out of his chest.”