Iaira Blackmont's Story

Iaira slowly raised her head, studied the meagre, grainy details of the room. Trying to recall how she had come to be here. Her head ached, her throat was parched. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she slowly stood. Pounding pain behind her eyes.
From somewhere below she could hear tavern sounds, a score of voices, drunken laughter. Iaira found her silk-lined cloak, reversed it and slipped the garment over her shoulders then she walked over to the door, unlocked it, then stepped out into the corridor beyond. Two wavering oil-lamps set in niches along the wall, a railing and stairs at the far end. From the room opposite hers came the muffled noise of love-making, the woman's cries too melodramatic to be genuine. Iaira listened a moment longer, wondering what it was about the sounds that disturbed her so, then she moved through the flicker of shadows, reaching the steps and made her way down.
It was late, probably well after the twelfth-bell. Twenty or so patrons occupied the tavern, half of them regulars, given the unease with which they were regarded by the remaining denizens, and she noted, as she approached the counter, that three of them were Gral, whilst another pair, both women, were Pardu. Both rather unpleasant tribes, or so Ammanas' memories informed her in a subtle rustle of disquiet. Typically raucous and overbearing, their eyes finding and tracking her progress ti the barl she elected caution and so kept her gaze averted.
The barman walked over as she arrived. 'Was beginning to think you'd died,'he said, as he lifted a bottle of rice wine into view and set it before her. 'Before you dip into this, lass, I'd like to see some coin.'
'How much do I owe you so far?'
'Two silver crescents.'
She frowned, 'I thought I'd paid already.'
'For the wine, aye. But then you spent a night and a day and an evening in the room- and I have to charge you for tonight as well, since it's too late to try and rent it out now. Finally,' he gestured, 'there's this bottle here.'
'I didn't say I wanted it,' she replied. 'But if you've any food left...'
'I've some.'
She drew out her coin pouch and found two crescents. 'Here, assuming this is for tonight's room as well.'
He nodded. 'You don't want the wine, then?'
'No, Saw'rak beer, if you please.'
He colelcted the bottle and headed off.
A figure pushed in on either side of her. The Pardu women.

"Saw'rak beer? Quite the drink for a lady."
Ulysses stood from his seat across the bar and sat next to Iaira.
"And you," He said, pointing at the Pardu women.
"You shouldn't push. It's rude."
"I don't take kindly to that kind of talk, especially from someone with such a feminine aspect to them." She pointed to the rose in his overcoat pocket.
"And since when did flowers become an exclusively female subject? This rose," He said, placing his drink down upon the bar, proceeding to step towards the woman.
"it symbolises Chaos Pyromancy. Something I am sure you have never heard of, and something I am sure your people do not respect. In my lands, it is considered a dangerous and frightful art, and those who are gifted with Pyromancy from an early age are locked away in the Magi Tower and are taught how to control and tune themselves to accept the art. This rose is to show people for who I am. It is a label. A warning. A threat. Not so feminine as you take it to be."
He began to hold the rose delicately in his left hand.
"I find it quite beautiful, do you not think? This certain shade of red.” He said, turning his head to Iaira.

A flash of recognition. And a flicker of...interest, mingled with disquiet. /She/ had never heard of such a thing before. She knew the warrens-and she could control some on her own, twist and tug on them. Rake's possession had rendered such things feasible for her. But Ammanas had never spoken of that. Iaira tugged discreetly on her hood, pulling it higher over her head so that her features were concealed, cast in shadow.
The Pardu women did not seem to realise the significance of what had just been spoken, looked at the man with confused eyes and one of the made a dimissive gesture. /That, Pardu, was a mistake,/ Iaira thought. A hint of annoyance tinted the quirk of her mouth as one of them turned to speak to her. 'Speak those Gral over there?' she asked, nodding to a nearby table. 'They want you to dance for them.'
'No, they don't.' Iaira replied.
'No,' the other woman said, 'they do. They'll even pay. You walk like a dancer. We could all see that. You don't want to upset them-'
'Precisely. Which is why I won't dance for them.'
The two Pardu were clearly confused by that. /Not too sharp, are we?/ In the interval, the barman arrived with a tankard of beer and a tin bowl of GOAT [couldn't resist] soup. He added a hunk of dark bread. 'Good enough?'
She nodded. 'Thank you.' Then turned to the woman who had first spoken, eyes darting to the man across from her. 'I am a Shadow Dancer. Tell them /that/, Pardu.'
Both women backed off suddenly, and Iaira leaned on the counter, listening to the hiss of words spreading out through the tavern. All at once, she found she had some space around her. /Good enough/.
The bartender was regarding her warily. 'You're full of surprises,' he said. 'That dance is forbidden.'
'Yes, it is.'
'You're from Quon Tali,' he said in a quieter voice, 'Ashemark, I'd guess, by the tilt of your eyes and that black hair. Never heard of a Shadow Dancer out of Ashemark.'
'Seems like you have words aplenty,' Iaira said, her voice a hiss.
'That I have,' he said with an emphatic nod. Then his gaze sharpened on her. After a moment, he grunted and moved away.

"Shadow Dancer?"
Ulysses had never heard of such a thing, and was intrigued by the notion of fear that had now displaced the room.
"Forbidden. Yet you proudly state your art. How treacherous. Yes..." He exhaled.
"Magnificently so." He returned to his seat beside Iaira and finished his drink.
"I can respect such pride. You intrigue me, Shadow Dancer. What is your name?"

She ate, sipped ale, and her headache slowly faded. Some time later, she turned to regard the man who had slid in the seat next to her, despite having noticed the effect her words had ahd on the Pardu. 'Intrigue...asking for my name and loudly announcing your own art, which sounds ominous no matter how mellow your voice might be.' She tilted her head, brought the tankard to her lips, a grin curling the corners of her mouth, lifting them up slowly. 'You couldn't have made it sound more threatening if you had tried, Pyromancer.' Setting the tankard before her once more and gesturing to the barman for a refill, she continued. 'You're a long way from home. Tell me what you call yourself and I will gift you with my name. Perhaps.'

"They call me Ulysses." He said, grinning behind his porcelain mask.
"The Seared."
He looked over to the Pardu women.
"Pardu, is it? In my language, this is similar to commoner slang for flatulence." He said, followed by a brief, deep laugh.
"You've crossed the line, Pyromancer." One of the women said, beginning to walk towards him.
Ulysses began to tut and shake his head.
"You've forgotten there is a dreaded Shadow Dancer between us, and she seems rather fond of me."
He sat in silence for a moment, then made a noise as if he had remembered something.
"It must have slipped my mind. Your name, if you please."

The Gral barked out something in a raspy, rough tongue and the Pardu woman glanced at him, then back to Ulysses frantically, her weight light on one foot, as if she were weighing her chances against an assassin who could perform a notoriously lethal dance, and a man whose abilities she could not even begin to comprehend. Finally, cursing between her teeth, she turned away, walking back to the table like a kicked pup. Iaira chuckled.
'You're too presumptious, Ulysses. Too presumptious by far.'
She tugged on the string tied in a knot at her throat, loosening it with slender fingers, then pulled her hood back and it rested at the back of her neck. 'Blackmont. Iaira. I'd say it's a pleasure, but we shall have to see. Nevertheless,' the woman nodded as the barman poured in her tankard, then left hurriedly, 'I'm a bit of a scholar. Never heard of a Chaos Pyromancer before. You simply /must/ demonstrate for me.'

Ulysses laughed and straightened his top hat. "I cannot demonstrate, more explain to you the basics. To understand the Chaos branch, one must first understand what Pyromancy means, and is."
Ulysses inhaled sharply, and began.
"Pyromancy has, well, a rather primitive aspect to it. Pyromancers are considered rather unsavoury, which is fine, as I never got along with anybody anyway, so, for me, spending my life learning the art of Pyromancy didn’t really change a thing. My Master, who, is in the Magi Tower had a very unique way of putting it: ‘Pyromancy is the ultimate fantasy. We are born into dark, and are warmed by fire – but this fire, we cannot touch. However, those whose fascinations with fire persist learn to hold it in their own hand.’"
Ulysses turned his head away for a moment, and then back to Iaira.
"Pyromancy is the art of casting fire. Produce flame, and then channel it, just as my ancestors did. The Pyromancer must be in tune with nature herself. Our lands of the Great Drakon are an abundance of nature. You’ll understand one day. It only takes time. A lot of time. As for the Chaos section, I will assume you can tell by the name it is not easily controlled. Quite simply, the Chaos Pyromancer makes sure his target is dead. Without a trace." He paused.
"Some may call it overkill. Me? I call it confirmation." He laughed.
"What about your skill, my girl? Your art? Shadow Dancer? It certainly sounds formidable."

Iaira studied the placid porcelain mask, and she could have sworn that when he was speaking of Pyromancy the permanent snarling grin widened. She listened carefully to his words, yet donned an absent-minded mask on, pretending to take notice of the other denizens in the tavern, and she chuckled inwardly when she noticed the fear with which the Gral's company regarded her. Her eyes darted to Ulysse's figure and she leaned over slowly, lifting her body slightly off her seat. Her lips were next to his ear and she did not forget to check for any possible trace of what could be lying beneath that façade of his- a haircolour, some skin, a scar, anything.
'Call me a girl, again, Ulysses, and you will wish your training had lasted longer,' she drawled in a mellow voice, not a single hint of hostility in it.
She slid back to her seat and regarded him once more, cursing him for denying her the satisfaction of watching the expressions on his face. 'As for Shadow Dancing...well, it is exactly what the name so openly betrays. It is a beautiful and deadly art, practiced by followers of High House Shadow, or Meanas. A martial art, an assassin's disciple. A game of illusion, speed and...well,' she chuckled harshly, 'Shadows. The soul of wit becomes the very body of untruth. Elegant, and memorable. It is a bestial, wilder art, that the human mind can barely comprehend because the dancer tiptoes between reality and phantasm.' She paused then, lowering her voice so that he would have to lean in to be able to hear her words, 'A Shadow Dancer, love, is Chaos unleashed, and I pity anyone, Pyromancer or not, who would have to face such a lively expression of it.'

Ulysses was very interested in this woman to threaten him so calmly.
"Your threats aren't meant to scare me, are they?" Ulysses said, pushing his glass towards the bartender for a refill.
"Your art certainly does sound formidable. I was right. I have read of assassins and those who prefer to lurk in the shadows, but never one so marvelously confident in herself."
Ulysses looked over at the Grals and nodded in their direction.
"So, who are they?"

She had once been sent out to hunt down her older brother, tracking him through half the city- oh, he'd known she was after him, known that she was the one they'd send, the only one capable of closing a hand on one scrawny ankle, dragging him back, then shaking him until his brain rattled inside his skull. He'd him a wild train that night. Ten years old and already completely out of control, eyes bright as marbles polished in a moutful of spit, the white more wicked than a wolf's snarl, all gangly limbs and cavorting malice.
He had been collecting...things. In secret. Strands of hair, nail clippings, a rotted tooth. Something, it turned out, from everyone in the entire House. Forty-two, if you counted four-month-old-Minala and he had, the little bastard. A madness less imaginative might have settled for a host of horrid dolls, upon which he could deliver minor but chronic torment to feed his insatiable evil, but not her brother, who clearly believed himself destined for vast infamy. Not content with dolls fashioned in likenesses, he had constructed, from twine, sticks, straw, wool and horn, a tiny flock of forty-two sheep. Penned in a kraal of sticks assembled on the floor of the estate's attic. Then, from one of his own milk teeth, newly plucked from his mouth, he made for himself the likeness of a wolf fang and then, with tatters of fur, the wolf to which it belonged, of a scale to permit it to devour a sheep-doll in a single gulp.
In skeins of demented magic, he had set his wolf among the flock.
Screams and wails in the night, in household after household, unleashed from terrifying nightmares steeped in the reek of panic and lanolin, of clopping hoofs and surges of desperate, hopeless flight. Nips and buffets from the huge roaring wolf, the beast toying with every one of them- oh, she would remember the torment for a long, long time.
In the course of the following day, as uncles, aunts, nephews and the like gathred, all pale and trembling and as the revelation arrived that one and all ahd shared their night of terror, few were slow in realising the source of their nightmares- of course, he had already lit out, off to one of his countless bolt-holes in the city. Where he would hide until such time as the fury and outrage should pass.
For the crimes committed by children, all fugue eventually faded, as concern rose in its stead. For most children, normal children; but not for Adaephon Delat Blackmont, who had gone too far. Again.
And so Iaira Blackmont had been dispatched to track down her brother, and to deliver upon him an appropriate punishment. Such as, she ahd considered at the time, flaying him alive. Sheep, were they? Well, she carried in her pack the wolf doll, and with that she intended most dreadful torture. Though nowhere near as talented as her older brother, and admittedly far less imaginative, she had managed to fashion a leash of sorts for the creeature, and now, no matter where her brother went, she could follow.
He was able to stay ahead of her for most of a day and the following until until a bell before dawn when, on a rooftop in the Prelid Quarter of Ehrlitan, she caught up with him, holding in her hands the wolf doll, gripping the back legs and pulling them wide.
The boy, running flat out one moment, flat on his face the next. Squealing and laughing and, even as she stumbled, that laughter stung so that she gave those legs and extra twist.
And, screaming, fell onto the pebbled roof, her hips filling with agony.
Her brother shrieked as well, yet could not stop laughing.
She had not looked too closely at the wolf doll, and now, gasping and wincing, she sought to do so. The gloom was reluctant to yield, but at least she made out the beast's bound up body beneath the tatter of fur- her underclothes- the ones that had disappeared from the clothesline a week earlier- knotted and wrapped tight around some solid core, the nature of which she chose not to deliberate overmuch.
He'd known she would come after him. Had known she'd find his stash of dolls in the attic. Had known she would make use of the wold foll, his own anima that he had so carelessly left behind. He'd known...everything.
That night, in the darkness before dawn, Iaira decided that she would hate him, for ever more. Passionately, a hatred fierce enough to scour the earth in its entirety.
It's easy to hate the clever ones, even if they happen to be kin. Perhaps especially then.

Iaira's lips quirked into a smile and she fumbled with her puch for a few seconds, before she trapped his coin between her fingers, flicking it over to him. The barman looked at her with a bewildered look in his eyes and she made a reassuring gesture before she replaced it with one of her own gold coins. 'The drink's on me. I'll be back; leave the door unlocked, if you'd be so kind.' He nodded with widened eyes and she couldn't resist the urge to wink before she turned to face Ulysses.
She straightened and made her way towards the door, 'You gentleman, you,' she commented.
The caravan guards tracked their progress, but none made move to follow- at least not immediately.
She hoped they would heed the implicit warning she'd given them. She already intended to kill a man this night, and one was enough, as far as she was concerned.
Stepping outside, Iaira paused for a moment. The wind had died. The stars were visible as blurry motes behind the veil of fine dust still settling in the storm's wake. The air was cool and still. Drawing her cloak about her and slipping her silk scarf over the lower half of her face, Iaira swung left down the street, deliberately grasping Ulysses' sleeve and tugging. At the juncture of a narrow alley, thick with shadows she slipped suddenly into the gloom.

"So what's our plan? Hiding? I'd rather not. You may prefer to dance in the shadows, but my dance belongs in the fair and full view of my enemies." Ulysses walked out into the open street and was greeted by the sight of two Gral men taking hurried steps from the tavern door, looking around frantically with their blades at their sides.
"You," Ulysses said, holding his extended arm with a pointing finger towards the Gral men, who turned quickly to face him.
"If you put your blades away, I will be done with you. However, take another step, threaten me in any way, and I will not be very kind, myself."
"No talk." One of the Gral men said, proceeding to walk towards Ulysses.
"Very well." Ulysses said, calmly pulling Basileus from the latch on his back, drawing the blade out slowly.
One of the Gral men, obviously the more confident of the two, laughed and made a swing into the still air as a warning, then initiated his stance. Ulysses held out Basileus, and waited.
The Gral man thrust his sword towards Ulysses' chest, aiming directly for his heart. Ulysses took a step back and easily knocked away the thrust with his left hand and stepped forward towards the man, grabbing the back of his head and pulling it down to face the ground. Then, removing his hand, he then ran his sword through the man's face, and out the back of his head. Ulysses stepped back once again, and held out his left hand, which now was glowing in the darkness. From it extended a black flame that knocked the corpse from a standing position onto the floor.
"May you rest." Ulysses said, bowing to the now charred corpse. The other Gral man took a step back in utter disbelief. This was meant to be an easy job.
"This one, surely, has to be yours, Iaira?" Ulysses called to the shadows.

Hood's breath, not exactly the fatherly type, are we? Iaira scoffed inwardly, bringing memories of her own childhood in mind. Dassem had been harsh -even cruel at times, the expectations of his children brought out the general more than they did the father. But he had been fair, and he had protected and taught them everything they had needed to be able to grow to be capable and independent. For that, she was thankful.
Although...perhaps a tad too capable.
In any case, she would not feed the family spite further, even though the man's tone made her fingers itch to slice a pretty smile on his face- or throat, for that matter. When she spoke, her voice was hesitant and low, her eyes widened with surprise and concern.
'I-I...' she stammered quickly, 'Apologise f-for the interruption at...this hour, m-my good Sir.' She courtsied, bowing her head low. She faked some coughing, her whole body trembling slightly. 'I am named Apsalar, a friend of your son, Sir.'

Ulysses looked over to Iaira, puzzled by what she had just said, but he remained quiet. She's smart. Ulysses thought. She knows what she is doing.
"A friend? Of his?" Ulysses' father broke out into a wheezing laugh, which was cut short by an obviously unhealthy cough.
"Ulysses has no friends, girl. Never has. Tell me how you really know this man."
"Father, she's not lying. Apsalar is my friend. Can we stay the night?"
"Stop calling me Father. I'm unsure if I want that connection with a savage right now. Call me by my bloody birth-name. And no, you may not stay the night. I have no desire for a pathetic street urchin and a bloody savage to be in my home."
"Fath-" Ulysses paused and exhaled heavily.
"Ioreth... I am your son. And this 'pathetic street urchin' is my friend. Have you no heart?"
"Fine. I'll allow you to stay for one moon, and one moon only. That is as far as my pity goes." Ioreth turned and walked back into the dark house, leaving the heavy door open for the two.
"Bastard." Ulysses said under his breath, turning to Iaira.
"What is this 'Apsalar' business? Does your name carry weight in Drakon?"

Seems like these two aren't too warm with one another...ironic, considering Ulysses's art. She chuckled with her own joke as soon as the sulking man had left.
'My name carries weight everywhere. And names wield power. I cannot risk to pass them like coins from one hand to another. Which is why you'll just play along.' She stepped in, her gaze curiously crawling along the stone walls, taking in every ornament or framed picture she saw. There weren't many. This was the residence of a stern man who would not be shaken by embelishments. There was little light, the one that slid through the few narrow windows like slim blades, filtered by the glass.
'And we cannot stay for a whole moon here. I have information that the rebellion will soon reach this city and I do not wish to partake into it- either as a victim or as a soldier. I'm afraid that following some deity would not suit me- I'm more of an attention seeker myself, the competition would kill me.'

"Rebellion?"
Ulysses followed Iaira into the house, and slammed the door behind him. He was now suddenly intrigued, and sat on an old rocking chair beside the slither of moonlight.
"Forgive me, I have been locked away all of my life. What rebellion? The Tower smith, Yuri, used to tell me of stories of the East in uproar, but I had always considered it to be untrue, just him trying to get to me."
Ulysses sat in silence.
"Well? Is it true?"

'Your friend was right in many things, but the war has escalated, I'm afraid. There is no longer talk of uproar, no.' She cleared her throat and dragged herself on a nearby chair, unclasping the cloak at her throat.'The Seven Cities Rebellion, or Whirlwind is the name of the rebellion led by Sha'ik on the continent of Seven Cities. Followers of the Whirlwind are said to follow the Whirlwind Goddess, a mysterious ascendant of unknown origin to the humans who lived on the continent. It is aptly named, as demonstrated when Sha'ik Reborn opened a magical book, releasing a giant whirlwind that surrounded the rebel's home base, the holy desert of Raraku. The Whirlwind was said to be the rage of the goddess amongst the Seven Cities natives, though this is a slight twist on the truth, if I may say so.' Iaira paused then, regarding him with a hint of slight smile on her lips, 'Or, if you'd rather adopt the followers' title, you may call it the Apocalypse.'

"Ah. I see. So the rebellion has not reached the Far East? That is good. Yuri made me wonder how far East this actually was, I was beginning to worry about the poor beings. But the Seven Cities? I had no doubt that would break out. All of that friction had to create fire. But this Whirlwind business. You don't believe in it, yourself, do you?"

'There has to be some truth in it, as there is in every legend. The Apocalypse myth has been going on for decades now. But that is not the worst thing. The fanatics numbers have risen to an immense peak- and the army created by the Emperor is...unorthodox at best.' She turned around and wrapped the cloak around the back of the chair. 'Bring me some water, will you, love? Killing makes me thirsty, thank you, you're such a dear. Now,' Iaira continued, 'He has appointed Rake as the High Fist of the army sent to drown out the rebellion. Here's the catch; it sticks in the throat. Half the officers there saw their first blood facing that bastard Rake, and now there he is, about to take command. Hood's knuckles,' she hissed,'won't be any tears spilled if the Hissar Guard cuts down Rake and every one of his Wickan savages right there at the Quay. The Seventh army doesn't want to believe that they need them.'