Ashlyn~

One hour.

One hour, they tell me.

A mere hour to prepare for the biggest moment of my life.

The messenger explains this after he has dispersed the crowd, which has taken longer than he might have expected. It's amusing, really. How these hotshot capitol folks expect that everyone will always listen to them. Peasants aren't like servants, easily dismissed. They want informaiton, they want gossip, and they're more persistent than a mob of horseflies. It's one of our best qualities. Grit, toughness and resilience are what us villagers are moulded out of.

When the townsfolk are as scattered as they're going to get, the messenger turns to me. He's a tall, slim man, with wavy black colored hair and a smooth, dark, complexion. He stands with a bossy air that makes it obvious that he is not used to being reckoned with. This is not a person that has experienced much but softness, I immedietly see. I have never been to the Palace, nor even Newland, but if this is what the people there are like, I can see why they are not going to Shadowpine themselves. 

"I'm Jorge Grimaldi, the messenger of the Queen," he begins. I resist the urge to say something sarcastic, mock his snobbish airs. Instead I just nod. "You have one hour to gather your belongings and gear. Then we shall travel to the Capitol to meet the other volunteers."

"An hour to pack?" I say. "That's ridiculous." There is a pause. "Sir," I add. Truthfully, I am not worried about this. It would most likely take less than ten minutes to gather all my belongings. What I'm concerned will take time is explaining this to Father.

"That's the rule, miss. For questers, an hour. For pilgrims, two. Fourtune seekers get three and knights four." 

I bite down on a snide comment risking to slip out of my lips. "Yes sir." I say through gritted teeth. "Shall I go, sir?"

"I shall wait." Jorge says. "Be no more than an hour."  

I repeat my dutiful expression of agreement and dash up the path. It takes about six minutes, running as I am, to return home. I burst into the kitchen, panting.

"Ashie..." Father is standing there, his dark eyes drooping and sad. "Ashie, where were you?"

"At the market," I say, cautiously. How can I tell him? There's no such thing as a good moment to say, Oh! Yeah! I almost forgot, I just volunteered for possibly the most dangerous quest in Nekaria. Can I go pack now?

"Why didn't you tell me you were going?" he asks.

"I didn't think you'd mind," I answer.

"Ashie!" Father's eyes grow hard. "You must tell me whenever you go anywhere!"

"I—" I start, not sure what to say.

"I... I don't want to lose another child." Father's voice is soft and sad, all hardness melting away.  "Ashie, I don't want to lose you too."

"Father..." I say. "Father, you're not going to lose me. I'm tough, see?" I kick the door. My foot aches, but Father smiles. I suddenly regret choosing to go on the quest. Father needs me. Is it too late to back out? I'm sure that Jorge would allow me to, but...

I feel like it is too late.

It was already too late when Jorge unrolled his scroll. It was too late when I decided to go to the Market. It was too late when Trist was stolen away. It's my destiny to do this. And I will come back— For Trist and for Father. And for me.

"Father?" I say. "I need to tell you something..." 

~A Little Later...~

Father has taken it better than I had expected. Maybe he saw the hard fire blazing in my eyes. Maybe he understands. Maybe he wants Trist back. Maybe he's simply tired of fighting. Whichever it is, I am glad for his cooperation. Now, I am in my room gathering my belongings.

Father has given me a strong canvas satchel, tough enough to outlast rain and rock, soft enough to use as a pillow, big enough to hold all I need, small enough to carry. It is perfect. 

I load in a lantern, rope, two tunics, both long sleeved, three pairs of trousers, a set of cotton stockings, a canteen filled with water, and two dinner rolls. It only barely fits. The clothes used to be Father's. It is quite obvious that skirts and blouses will not suffice for such a journey.

I slide on my last remaing pair of stockings. Brown wool trousers over that, a long sleeved tan tunic with a hook-clasp on the neck, and my warmest cloak (the latter can also serve as a blanket). I touch the cool chain of my necklace, and finger the heart-shaped locket. Should I bring it? It's the most valuable thing I own, what if I lose it? I use my fingernail and pop it open, revealing a picture of a smiling woman with long caramel hair (like mine) and my same ice-blue eyes. Mama. I leave it around my neck. I shall need bravery in the days (weeks? months?) to come, and this carries so many memories I need to keep my strengths up. I swing the satchel onto my back.

When I meet Jorge at his caravan, he looks me up and down. I can't tell if he approves or if he's just being polite, but he nods and leads me to a white palfry. "It'll be about an hours trip." 

He tries to help me, but I push his offers away. Like I haven't grown up riding horses, like I haven't spend hours galloping on Father's mare, Thunderflash, through the mountainous passes. The procession begins to move, and I feel a rush of adrenaline.

The quest is on it's way.

I am on my way. 

Hawk~

The
horse provided for me for the journey
is a bay mare, small and stocky. I am no judge of horses, but this
one looks good enough to carry me across half of Nekira. I pat her
neck before going around and swinging onto her back. l
give a quick nod to the messenger. He is fair haired, tall, and
very very nervous, jumpy and slightly
paranoid. I'm guessing that he is only a little bit older than me.

We
wheel our horses out of the courtyard of the stable, hooves
clattering on the street.

My
bay mare follows the messenger's hight-strung chestnut stallion,
winding through the streets, swerving
around
the people, who do no more then throw
a scornful
glance. The sun is starting to sink in the sky and as the messenger
tells me, we should be there by night fall, if we travel quickly.

We
pass through
the city gates, the messenger waving a paper at the guard, certifying
that we could pass. As we hit the open and dusty road, the horses
speed up. I let go of the reins and hang onto the saddle horn, hoping
that them bay mare will follow the messenger's horse. The messenger
himself doesn't talk much, as we go along he only offers a comment or
two on where we are and how long it will take to get to the capitol.
Which is perfectly
fine with me. I like silence.

We
stop by a stream and water the horses. l idly watch the traffic on
the road as we rest. Far away, in the city, l can hear the bells
ringing ever so faintly. i suddenly wonder if they are ringing for my
future death, already they are morning my absence, my stupidity for
going on this mission.

I
shake my head, trying to dislodge those thoughts, as l go to fetch my
horse and continues on the journey.

The roads start to
fill up with more people and carts, some going others leaving. The
messenger tells me that we are nearly at the capitol. The sun is
sinking in a sky of purple and blue, as we weave around everyone. Few
people, l notice, are mounted on horses. All of them are either
walking or riding in a horse-drawn cart, filled with goods. I feel
uneasy, nervous around so many people. I feel insecure, like I need a
sturdy wall at my back. This doesn't seem to bother the messenger,
who rides calmly on. He is no longer so jumpy, I can tell that he
knows something that I don't. And as I look around at the faces of
those passing in the crowd, they seem to know something as well.
Something overpowering all other thoughts, always on their minds.

And then the capitol
appears in sight, rising over a hill, sentry towers splitting the
darkening sky like gray-white teeth, high all surrounding all sides,
a huge metal gate, looking like the mouth of a giant beast, wanting
to devour all who enter. It inspires fear in some, perhaps, but as
the countless torches light up, l can only see a mountain, who, like
all the others, l will climb to the top.

I pause for a
moment, looking at it, before urging my horse on. The messenger looks
back and shouts at me to hurry up.

At the gates, he
speaks to the guard for a moment before we go on. The city is fairly
quiet, a few people still on the streets, but nearly everywhere,
there are torches burning. It looks city a dead city, almost, burning
to the ground. So many torches, why are they burning?

The messenger,
noting my wondering looks, says quietly. “The torches burn in
memory.”

“Memory of who?”

“The Duke of
Clearington. He was murdered, not long ago.” He says nothing else.
The Duke, l'm supposing, must have been well liked or very important,
either way I have never heard of him.

We make our way to
the center of the city, where there are the most torches burning. Ash
and sparks float around me like fireflies.

“l must leave you
here. The Queen's servants will take care of you.” He dismounts,
then, leading his horse, walks off without another word, leaving me
only to wonder.

Who was the Duke of
Clearinton? Why is it so quiet? I can hear my heart beating, it is so
quiet. The palace looms above me, imposing, gray stone.

I mount the steps,
then raise my hand to knock on the door.  

Top

Since Ladasha likes Godric, and since Cho left, can someone take over her charries?

Also, I know St. Owl got angry at me for asking this, but I really need to.

Abigail, you are also in the Yet Another Harry Potter RP and you forgot about it. Please post on it. Same goes for Scylla, Sydney, and everyone else in it. Please. 

Top

Um, Abigail?  I know I asked you this earlier, but I didn't get a reply: Can I make a prisoner?

Also, everybody, I am here, and if you were wondering why I have not really been posting, that's because I am waiting until the Questers get to the forest.

Cho?  Somebody (Not the CBer) wants to join the Star Wars Roleplay.