Post by Verainne on Jul 20, 2010 17:59:19 GMT -5
[[ This was a school assignment I had to do. It was a short-story on discrimination, and well... Yeah. It has a SMALL mature bit in it, but I don't know if it REALLY counts as mature, so I left it open for YOU to decide. If you think I should tag it, tell me, and I will. xD ]]
REFLECTIONS
[/color][/font]REFLECTIONS
"Git outta here, ye damned Wise Eye!" A blond male Dragora towered over a shrinking T'mari girl, his emerald eyes tinged with hate.
"But I-"
"Out! 'Afore I sic m'dogs on ya!"
The T'mari squeaked and scrambled out of the Dragoran Inn, narrowly avoiding a stray mug of beer that 'slipped' out of a certain customer's hands. Again, the long-running hatred between the Southern T'mari tribes and Northern Dragora Clans denied her a night's lodgings.
Runa, about sixteen, had an unusual shade of oak-brown hair for her race, which she kept tied neatly in a loose braid with a silver silk ribbon. Around her neck hung a thin golden chain with a thumbnail- sized sapphire pendant. Sapphires were an expensive gem amongst the T'mari people; it held T'mari magic better than any other gem, including diamonds. Hers had come from the deepest of Dragora Mines, making it a very rare accessory, indeed. Her expensive forest-green dress was long-sleeved and hung off the shoulders, with silver rope hemming. She also wore boots of pure snow-white, kept clean with various magic spells.
Aside from her clothing, she had other unique features. From the outside edge of one silvery-blue eye, a stormy-silver birthmark trailed down her cheek and ended in a swirling pattern. She had a large, beautiful phoenix tail, plumed and upright and more stunning than the tail of the most noble peacock. At the sides of her head, ears appeared as a mass of feathers, taking the triangular shape of a cat's. Runa was obviously of T'mari nobility, but in the Dragora's "sacred" fields, she was lower than dirt.
"Goddamn Firebloods. They always jump to conclusions, they're dirty, their vile, they're--" Though normally quiet and soft spoken, Runa now muttered darkly to herself, her perfect and noble image turning twisted and corrupt. Why did she, the T'mari princess, have to deal with them anyway? Any of her father's knights could have gone. But no, it'd show more of a 'trusting' image if she herself went. The stupid Firebloods didn't even realize their place, and though she'd graced them with her presence, they'd gone and thrown beer, beer at her. She didn't even know why her father wanted to ask the Queen if he could build a university here. Firebloods were ignorant and stupid. They'd never learn, no matter how much you tried to teach them.
Runa trudged along a dark, muddy alleyway. Her boots kept getting sucked into the slimy, greenish brown muck, yet magic saw to it that they never dirtied. Tonight, as she had been doing similarly for the past three nights, she would find shelter under the worn and shambled roof of an unused storage shed.
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"Is it so hard to get a goddamned room ready?! It's been two hours!" The shouts of a rowdy Dragora-female echoed through the Sapphira Inn's halls. Her southern voice was polished, yet rough, like sandpaper coated with honey. Most of the T'mari customers didn't even spare the irritated L'yrinn a glance, but the ones who did so gave her icy cold glares.
"I'm sorry, but we have guests of ... higher importance to attend to. Please return to your seat."
"Higher importance?!!" L'yrinn's screeches could be heard across the street. She was not happy at all with the way she was being treated. "Ya already gave rooms to three homeless men, 'n' they couldn' even pay full price! I was here before 'em, dammit!"
"Please calm yourself. You may find another inn, if this one so displeases you."
"Damn right it does! Y'know, you'd think that the money I brought in'd be more important than the fact that it's Dragora money! I thought y' T'mari were intelligent people, but I guess not. I hope ya like losin' business!" The Dragora stormed out loudly, but not after expressing herself in words only heard in the Razha Slums. The door slammed behind her, and a chorus of laughter and jeers erupted from inside. Making a rude gesture with her hands, L'yrinn fumed down the T'mari streets.
L'yrinn had pink hair that was cut medium-short and spiked. Her eyes, narrow and confident as a cat's, were a fire of reds and oranges, pupils slitted like a snake's. She wore a brown tank-top that exposed her well-toned midriff, with an abdomen that only female warriors possessed. Her dark blue jeans, loose and baggy, were ripped in places, probably from numerous fights. She wore a blood red scarf, large enough that it fell off her shoulders and even covered her chin. On her hands were brown, fingerless leather gloves, worn at the palms from the sword that hung at her side. Around her hip was a traveling belt with many packs attached to it, each a different size. On her left wrist was an antique bracelet with many rubies-- The Dragora Gem. It held Dragora Magic wonderfully, and this one was a gift from her deceased grandmother. It wasn't just a tool for L'yrinn, it was her most precious memory.
L'yrinn also had many marks of the Dragora people. For one, from her back protruded two large, golden-scaled dragon wings. On random areas of her body, golden scales replaced skin. The spots were never larger than a Silver Enrii, the currency of Vir Wyrra. They didn't need to be, though-- even at that size, Golden Scales usually meant strong warrior blood. L'yrinn was the youngest of the Queen's Own, the Dragora Queen's personal army.
Annoyed with the haughty attitudes of the T'mari people, L'yrinn plopped down on the fence of an old stable. After a moment's silence, she looked up to they sky and opened her mouth. And eerie trill escaped her lips, a haunting melody like the cry of some unknown mythic bird. She raised and lowered its pitch, like the song of a whale, but the sound was distinctly dragon. From somewhere unknown, a pure white winged stallion soared in from above, landing majestically in front of L'yrinn.
I told you. Reasoning with the T'mari people is pointless. Queen Alyra sent you here to meet with the King and discuss his daughter's disappearance, not to waste time fighting a losing battle with the innkeeper. Honestly, what kind of boneheaded King lets the Princess waltz into enemy territory without guards anyway? Sometimes I wonder why idiots are allowed to rule. The Pegasus snorted his disapproval.
L'yrinn laughed at her companion's mind-speech. Whitestorm's sharp tongue never ceased to make her feel better. His advice was never sugar-coated-- he didn't tell L'yrinn what she wanted to hear, only the cold, hard facts.
Only the best of knights got to ride a Pegasus, due to their rebellious and wild nature. A Pegasus chose its rider, not the other way around. Even if a knight was skilled beyond legend, if he was not chosen, he would be stuck on a normal steed. Some of the best knights had to participate in the semi-annual Choosing for up to seven years before finding their mount. L'yrinn and WhiteStorm had quite the first meeting. L'yrinn had reached the Age of Choosing and was participating in her first, when she had strode right up to WhiteStorm and declared, "You'll be my mount." Of course, the older Riders had been appalled by her bold, outright rudeness. Much to their surprise, (and dismay,) WhiteStorm had given an equally rude retort. They spent the next thirteen minutes insulting each other with a terrifying calmness. The menacing aura was so strong, not even the guards dared to interfere. WhiteStorm, amused by the Dragora-foal's stubbornness, agreed (although very rudely) to be L'yrinn's mount. Ever since, they'd had a horribly blunt, but unbreakable friendship.
Well? Are you going to continue standing here like a love-stricken maiden, or are you going to ride me? WhiteStorm demanded. He was not a patient horse. You'd've made it to the King by now had you not been so insistent on walking. Your legs will not rot off if you don't use them for a day or two.
"I could say the same for your mouth," L'yrinn muttered, swinging one leg over her mount's back. "A'right, let's go."
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"Hm... What've we here, boys? A nice, young T'mari maiden with a really nice body. I think she'd fetch a nice price, eh, boys?"
Dragora slave traders had captured Runa while she slept, and now she lay, bound and terrified, in the darkest corner of the slave warehouse. Three men stood before her now, staring at her with cruel and perverse eyes. The first one, a large, dirty man in his late 30's, grinned at her with the few yellow teeth he had. His body reeked of beer and mildew, and the stench of his breath made it seem he had eaten out of the sewer. When he moved, his fat rippled and bounced like a ship and the ocean. His men were in no better shape, grimy and foul as their leader. One was scrawny and resembled a weasel, while the other one was very fat (though not as much as the first man) and looked like a sewer rat. Disgusted, Runa wrinkled up her nose. In T'mari lands, she could simply state her father's name, and her life would be spared, with the occasional ransom. However, in Dragora territory, she feared it would be quite different.
"Now, 'member how we got rules 'bout keepin' our 'ands off da merchandise? Welp, I'mma letcha ferget 'dem just dis once as a reward fer findin' such a nice product. 'Ave atter, boys."
Runa tried to scream through her gag, but it came out muffled and impossible to distinguish. She struggled as The Rat-man pinned her legs down, stroking them with rough and grimy hands and licking his dirty lips. The Weasel tied her already-bound hands to a pipe, while sucking her neck with cracked lips, leaving trails of slobbering mess trickling down to her chest. Tears filled her eyes as The Weasel's vile breath reached her nostrils. She whimpered at the back of her throat as The Rat reached up and ripped her dress off her shoulders and pulled it down off her ankles, ripping the hem slightly. Runa shut her eyes as their disgusting and filthy hands explored her body, followed along by their mouths. She cried silently at every disgusting grunt they made, every slurping nose she heard. The Weasel removed her gag, but when she opened her mouth to scream, it was replaced with something far more disgusting than their hands. The Rat stood up and started to unbuckle his belt, and all the while, The Blob watched with a sick, satisfied smile on his face.
"Now, what've we here? Slave trading and rape, in my territory?" A female Dragora's voice echoed through the halls, though she was right behind the main trader. "Y'know, ya'd think the idiot's'd know to steer clear of a famous Rider's homeland. But nah, they're dumb enough t' operate in it."
Really. But then again, if they're as stupid as they are ugly, it's really no surprise.
"Who--?" The Weasel and The Rat spun around to see the newcomers, as Runa coughed and spat, trying to get the vile taste of The Weasel off her taste buds. The Blob squinted his eyes, trying to make out the two shapes. One looked like a Dragora youth, but the other one seemed to be a winged horse. A Pegasus?
--
"Y'know, next time ya wanna go into unfamiliar lands, take a couple guards with ya, princess. Tracking spells ain't easy, 'specially when ya have t' travel across the country to get one o' the lost person's items." L'yrinn had already knocked out the Blob and one of his goons, and was busy tying the third one up. "Ahh, these guys've been slitherin' around for a while now. With all their crimes together, they're probably gonna get the Death Sentence." Runa stared, wide-eyed. "But...!!"
"Listen, ya seem like a nice enough gal, but it's dangerous for T'mari people down here. It'd been better had ya just asked a guard at the border to take the message. Folk up there ain't so narrow-minded, so it's safer for you, and the message is more likely t' get ta the Queen." L'yrinn, unsuccessful at untying the ropes, unsheathed her dagger. "You're lucky I know this place like the back of my hand. Hell, you're lucky I got to ya in time. I don't imagine gettin' raped by somethin' that foul is a pleasurable experience." She cut the ropes loose. Runa scrambled to her knees and tried to stand. Her legs wobbled and Runa crumpled underneath her own weight; L'yrinn quickly caught her. "Easy there."
"Why are you so concerned about it? It's none of your business" Runa snapped at L'yrinn as she was helped into her dress. She was no stranger to being rescued, but her saviors always seemed... cold, aloof. They were usually only after the reward, not because they wanted to do the right thing. However, something about the way this Dragora spoke to her was...
" 'Cuz I am, that's all." L'yrinn gave a shrug and helped her over to WhiteStorm, seating her at his neck. "No proper lady should be left unguarded in dangerous places."
Especially with goons like that running around. Honestly, haven't they ever heard of bathing? I'd be surprised if they even knew what water was.
Runa giggled at Whitestorm's remark, and then turned to L'yrinn. "You're unguarded." L'yrinn noticed how softly Runa spoke this, yet somehow her words were impossible to ignore. Was this the grace of a noble?
"Well, I ain't a proper lady, am I? I'm a warrior, through and through. 'Sides, all that etiquette and fancy clothing ain't for me."
"But you're a Dragora! Of course you're not a lady!" The moment Runa said those words, she knew why the land of Vir Wyrra had been separated. L'yrinn stopped and turned, looking at Runa with unreadable eyes.
"And you're a T'mari. You're supposed to be haughty and demanding. But you don't seem that way to me, d'ya?"
Runa started to speak, but stopped herself and nodded. "I'm sorry. I guess not all Firebl-- I mean Dragora are the way they're portrayed..."
L'yrinn stared at Runa for a long moment, then slowly smiled. "And I guess not all T'mari are the way we see 'em. Now, how'dja like t' grab a bite 'fore we get back to the Queen? It'll git the taste of... HIM out of yer mouth, and 'sides, Dragora Ham is the sweetest meat you'll ever set your choppers on, an' our cider ain't no small treat, either. "
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