Young Writers Society

It is the beginning of the 43rd century, and the age of heroes is a hundred years past. Although the small petty arguments between border towns still occasionally blow some embers, the flame of war has long been starved for air. There is peace between the Thodosian nations, however uneasy it may be. Treaties have been written. Trade flourishes. All seems well.

Yet, as always, true intentions are hidden. Schemes for dominance lie in waiting, behind false smiles and amiable nods. Lies and treachery. The air is choking with it. Even the humblest peasant can sense the predators in wait, the daggers hidden behind backs, the eyes watching for a vulnerable moment. Lords and ladies wait with bated breath, wondering what would to shatter the illusion – what would begin the second era of steel, blood, and tears.

Or who.

She comes into the world on a slightly gusty morning in a little hut near the banks of the Cimejiye. Her mother is one of the la talmus – the untouchable. Her father was not. Immediately after her birth, she is taken away. Spirited by horse, wagon and hand past the Delebrian border, across Prytulian hills, to a nondescript orphanage in Medenseig, where she would be safe – safe while her mother is executed.

Her name’s Jezebel. She likes cinnamon and the colour purple.

For whatever reason, roadside taverns were common hiding places for those who didn’t want to be found. This roadside tavern in question was called Di Destpeke ve Nuceye, whatever that meant. It wasn’t a bad tavern. The air was warm, tinged with the scent of booze and sweat. The floor was fairly clean. The patrons weren’t hitting each other. All things considered, Delebrians seemed much more orderly than the Medenseigen.

There was a particular woman seated at the counter that stood out. Matted, swept-back black hair. An overly-long hooded cloak that looked suspiciously like a floor mat. Most interestingly, though – scars on her legs that the cloak couldn’t hide. And her eyes – they brimmed with quiet anger, telling Jezebel very clearly that this wasn’t a person that would welcome an annoyance.

The obvious course of action was to annoy her.

Jezebel spoke in the common tongue as she sidled up beside this stranger, open smile at the ready. “Hey there.”

The scarred woman took one look at Jezebel before her eyes went back to her drink.

“My name’s Jezebel, or Jez for short. What’s yours?”

Again, a single wolf-eyed glare was all Jezebel received. It said go away. Jezebel didn’t go away, and instead chose to lean in and whisper.

“What are those red marks around your wrists?”

That got the woman to speak, her voice coming out low and quiet. “Shut up.”

“Nah.”

“Stop talking.”

“No.”

“What do you want?” the woman growled, finally turning her head to face Jez. Her face came into the light – tanned cheeks lined with dirt, deep lines under her dark eyes.

“Your name, idiot.”

There was a long, long pause.

“You don’t need to know.”

“Well, that’s rude,” Jezebel said, pouting. “If you don’t want to give me your name, I’ll go and ask the guard about you. Do you want that?”

If looks could kill, Jezebel would have been blasted into oblivion right then and there. The scarred woman took a deep breath, and her answer could only be described as restrained.

“Caelia.”

“Caelia,” Jezebel repeated slowly, tasting the name on her tongue. “That’s not a Delebrian name.”

“Neither is Jezebel,” Caelia hissed. Her accent was definitely not Delebrian. “Now, what do you want?”

“Gods, you’re touchy. I just wanted a nice talk.”

“I am not one for nice talks.”

“That’s a shame,” Jezebel said, settling herself into her seat. “Anyway, you were right about me not being from here. I was raised in Medenseig.”

Having realised her inevitable fate, Caelia gave up being stubborn and talked. “And why are you here in Delebre, Jezebel?” The last word came out like a curse.

“I’m glad you asked,” Jezebel said brightly. “To visit my mother’s grave.”

“That’s it? To see your dead mother?”

“Yes.”

“You would travel across Prytul, up to-”

“Sheltere Bakur. Small town up the river.”

“-Sheltere Bakur, just to visit a rock and a pile of dirt?”

Jezebel frowned. It sounded dumb when put like that. “Well, why are you here, then?” she countered, maybe a little too defensively.

“Nothing you need to know about.”

“But I want to know.”

For the first time, a slow, sly smile spread across the scarred woman’s face. “That is a shame,” Caelia said.

“Ouch,” Jezebel muttered, hanging her head in mock defeat.

Caelia opened her mouth to say something further, but the sound of hooves and wheels interrupted her. A carriage. There was a clamour outside as it stopped and horses sighed, there was a barking of orders, and there was a loud clatter as Caelia got up so fast her stool fell over. Suddenly, she didn’t look so intimidating. The scarred woman was looking at the tavern owner behind the counter – he jerked his head towards the back room, and she strode in without giving a second glance back at Jezebel – who watched all of this happen in silence.

The rest of the tavern hadn’t seemed to notice anything. The teenaged kid by the doorway was playing with the hem of his cloak. The two balding men at the corner were deep in conversation about last season’s harvest. The drunkard at the far end of the bar still had his face planted into the counter. The tavern owner… was now going around the counter, moving to sit up Caelia’s knocked-over stool. Jezebel locked eyes with him, a silent question printed on her face. There was a warning look written on his expression as he shook his head – and then the door flew open and a troupe of armed soldiers marched in, making the floorboards creak loudly in complaint. They didn’t look like official military personnel. Their armour was the opposite of uniform – rusted, ripped, dirtied. Their weapons weren’t much better – chipped sabres with rough wooden scabbards.

“Al-diib,” the tavern owner said in Delebrian, speaking to one of the men at the fore. “Are you and your guards staying the night?”

The now-silent tavern watched as Al-diib – whoever he was – shook his head.

“No,” Al-diib replied. His voice was like sandpaper. “The search for the Graecian is coming to an end – she was spotted last in this area. In this tavern.”

Jezebel sat up a little straighter.

“Your source must have been mistaken, for I haven’t seen her at all,” the tavern owner replied coolly.

“Need I remind you that the reward for whoever finds her is now three hundred thousand dinars?”

“Of course not. You’ve had posters put up everywhere. I remember one that was rudely nailed to my water tank.”

Jezebel chose to interrupt. “Um,” she began, raising her hand as if she were in a Medenseigen classroom. All eyes in the room swivelled to her. “The Graecian… She’s that famous gladiatrix, yes?”

“You are correct,” Al-diib said, turning to face her. “I am her owner. She’s escaped me again, slippery devil that she is. Do you know where she may be?”

“Could you describe her to me?” Jezebel said, ignoring the wide-eyed glare that the tavern owner was shooting at her.

“Tall and muscled, like the rest of those Apatrian scum. Long black hair, though she may have cut it. Has scars all over her body and probably smells like shit.”

“Nice ass?” Jez queried.

Al-diib blinked at the sudden outlandishness, but quickly recovered. “Aye, he said, gold-plated teeth showing through his grin. “Nice ass.”

“She’s in the back room.”

a/n: yws' super good formatting system won't let me split up the text into proper paragraphs. oh well.