[marli-tucker-blog]

The sweat from a new routine stung Ilona’s eyes, but made it easier to pull her wild hair back into something more manageable for tending the bar. Ilona was used to the sting, though, and the ache of her muscles from being tested in novel ways. Dance was certainly a more rewarding undertaking than farming, not that she didn’t miss the fragrant breeze of her Fertile Province home before it choked her, turned acrid from the scorched earth left behind by Sanguine soldiers. She was rootless again, and this time she was without the roaming band of merry potion vendors she’d called her family before bandits cut them down while they slept.

All this misfortune should have robbed her of all joy, but dancing at the tavern every night, and sharing in what merriment was to be had in the last stronghold of the Noble Planes amounted to enough to keep her going. A euphoric smile was planted on her face from the twin highs of performance and praise, and she flashed it at the first patron to sidle up to the bar.

“Welcome, stranger,” she greeted brightly. It mattered not if she’d seen the customer before–most everyone in this region was still a stranger to her. “Pick your potion.”

[gavros-ofthefertileprovince]

“Good evening, little dove,” he replied, looking at the woman with piercing eyes, as a soft, amused smile spread across his face. He did not notice an accent, which probably meant that she came from the same province he did. The thought was a lot more comforting than it should have been, but then, the King was always feeling a lot of relief each time he could add one of his subjects to the list of people that got away from the Sanguine Army. 

“A potion? I was going to go for mead, but if you have something that could make me fall asleep without the headaches, and the other side effects, then I’d be willing to sell my home for that.” From his attire, you could not tell that his home was a castle, rather than a barn, and while he doubted that a lot of people knew what the King of the Fertile Province looked like, he could not exactly show up here dressed with sumptuous clothes, cloaks embroidered with golden thread and even less so with a crown on his head. The only sign that betrayed his belonging to another caste was the cleanness of his plain clothes. 

[oceancalliing-blog]

   last night had not been so arduous as the two dozen before it had –not many who lingered late, mulling over their tankards of mead as if they hoped to find answers at the bottom of the metal container, and no large pools of vomit and drink to clean. mar blessed the moon cycles for this simple fact, and took solace in the small satisfaction of watching the sky turn from navy to grey not because she had been toiling away with a scrub-brush, but because young limbs were rested well enough to rise before the cock crowed. today was not such a bad day, perhaps, and so with fingers wrapped around a precious copper from the meager stash wrapped in old cloth ( hidden between the rough straw of her mattress ), mar took to the streets in search of the bakers’ to break her fast.

   eassidran would never be her home –that was reserved first and only to the azure expanses of the ocean and salt-sea breezes carding through her hair—but more months than she could count on one hand had brought her to a familiar equilibrium with the city, one that tugged her feet through cobbled streets and crumbling doorways with ease. she had always been good with direction, anyways, even when ulene had been from a different family with a different name and a different face.

   she doesn’t mean to stumble into the entourage, lost in her thoughts as she often is ( preoccupied with remembering what sea weed tastes and like, and the way her stomach drops when a ship crests each waves and skids down into the trough below ). however, the snick of metal being drawn and sharp calls snap her from her contemplations. still cloaked in shadow, she stops, eyelids blinking over murky-brown irises as she makes to back away. the guardsman uniforms are familiar, even in this grey hour before dawn –more by shape than color, but recognizable nonetheless.

   then there is the voice, rich with authority. a king, then. which one, mar isn’t sure yet –she hasn’t met many kings, save for their alter egos in sailors’ stories that should always be taken with a grain of salt. “ ‘tis fine. i was just passin’ though. ” she says quickly, the edges of her copper digging into her palm. “ didn’t mean t’ intrude. ”

[gavros-ofthefertileprovince]

Out of all the people Gavros had had the chance to meet in Eassidran, most of them were fleeing the same evil the Queen, himself and their serfs did. Her accent, while he could tell was from the Southern part of the Planes remained foreign to his ears. "You are not from here," holding a hand up to his heart, the man added, his eyes sparkling with wit and amusement, "although, neither am I. Where are you from?" His intonation               or maybe was it the way he looked at people, smiled at them                           conveyed the impression that he was always interested, always sincere about what he was asking and telling others. 

There was something about this woman which he could not quite grasp. Would have he been asked to describe it, the King would have said that it was her aura, that made him feel like she was not a complete stranger. And his description would have betrayed the fact that he could not explain it. Out of the few things that the man loathed, it was ignorance that he despised the most. Needless to say that it was when he did not know something that he felt the most vulnerable. 

As foolish as this whole aura matter seemed, there was something almost eerie about the fact that he could not just brush it off. Like a disease, it clung to him, to his guts and left him confused and silent for a while.

It must have been the lack of rest, Gavros finally told himself, rubbing at tired eyes. 

“By Ladia...” turning his back on his company, the King's eyes drifted to stare at the stone paved floor, and found himself thinking of the tall, threatening walls that separated this city from the Sanguine Heretics. “I miss my gardens,” he finally spoke, eyes still fixed on the cold pavement, “architecture, urbanisation has never been my thing. It’s always too strict, too formal, too symmetrical and it lacks of colors,” he finished with a thin smile. “I am talking gibberish, I apologize” Gavros stated, amused, his shoulders shaking with contained laughter. 

[gavros-ofthefertileprovince]

Quiet and empty streets were something Gavros preferred  to the comfort of his blankets and featherbed but lately, ever since the war had begun, his bed was simply abandoned. The rare moments during which the King could find sleep, his rest was spoiled by nightmares. It had rained all night, the air was humid and filled with many scents. Mud, flour, rusting iron. Blood. The King held his hand up to his nose, a failed attempt to stop the smell of blood from reaching him. The massacres his province had to endure not so long ago were too close from the present day to be just a memory, even less something he would have had the time to heal from.

And so, the man’s woolen, heavy cloak danced rapidly on the floor as he hurried his pace and strode away from the butcher’s shop with not a single idea of where he was going to end up. It was true that he did not know those streets very well, but the man did not believe that to find a quiet place where he could sit and meditate, a complete knowledge of the city’s map was necessary. 

Once a satisfying point was found, Gavros requested to have his wooden savonarola seat installed by his guard. “Would you sit with me for once?” He asked, finding it ridiculous that they should stand when there was no one around to judge them for taking a rest. They deserved it, he told himself. 

They did not do as they were told, although he was too tired to argue with these women. Instead, the King dozed off and found himself lost in his thoughts, his brown eyes staring blankly at the rising sun. 

He must have sat here for quite a while already when the sound of his guards reaching out for their swords, calling out at someone, pulled him from the chaos of his thoughts. “Leave them be,” he finally ordered, getting up slowly. “Please, have a seat with me,” he said to the person standing in the shadow. 

[gavros-ofthefertileprovince]