The Castle Of Grèaboa

Greàboa, Zcwrith Empire. As/A: 3088.

The Castle of Graèboa holds on to a lot of memories. The stoned walls and its marble floor, had led in conquest through generations, many coups and battles; bloodshed and slaughters, leaders, kings and tyrants alike. These memories could be seen by each passing shadow, the tiniest prick of light, and the slightest of echo. To some, it was their place of birth: either born of life, or born to life.

And upon this very grounds, was another yet again to be branded by life.

¶The warm afternoon breeze forces its way through the drapes of the room, ushering summer's warmth, and an uneven Visitor.

A man approaches from the south of the largely built room, through the only exit door. His steps carefully caves the whispers of the wind, dispelling the silence and proclaiming his presence even more. A firm grip upon the crown of his sheathed blade that hugs his waist, while his other hand rests unresisting behind him, over the cape dragging along as he shoves one foot in front the other. He walks to the window by the north, and pulls it curtain to a side, letting in the aching rays of the sun, and the melodies of crows.

He sighs loathly and unpleasantly at the sight his eyes caught, clearing his throat in the same manner, to stir the fair lady awake.

"You must be Ailith."

He paces about the room, carefully avoiding her gaze.

"You are?" she retorts.

"Your feet rests upon the grounds of my castle -" He bluntly avoids her question.

"- and you should be on your knees bowing in my presence."

His intimidating eyes now pierces through hers, sending rushes of fright through her every marrow.

"I'm sorry, I still do not know who you are, and how I got here."

Ailith forcibly breaks through the thrustful glare.

"Trash like you should be groveling not towering."

He growls at her, making her wish she had not said a word.

Ailith couldn't muster the right reply, only a direct stare at the man in front of her.

His face held no emotions: not anger nor happiness, sadness or excitement, it was just plain, old and cold.

"Manners needs be taught to pigs." He says, and takes his eyes off her, making his way to the door "No bride of mine will dishonor me"

Holding unto the door handle, he pauses, looks back at the morbid female sitting upon the soft exteriors of the matrass whose sides were coated with shimmering brown wood; and carved over its surface were tiny petals that runs horizontally to each corner, converging at a larger petal that fitted the running rows symmetrically in the middle.

"Fifty lashes and non more --" He directs his words to another who stood within the confines the shadows created "-- I want to see her covered in blood and her bones out of her skin, right before it heals."

He jabs the door open and leaves the room, paving way for a hugely built man, face shielded with a clothe, gripping the head ends of a whip.

Everything seemingly an unfold of a screaming reality, peeling through the tight grip her facades held.

Ailith still couldn't birth a word. The awe of the man before had blocked every ounce of word or sound she could've uttered. She has never before felt such intense overwhelming presence.

The entrance of another, clogs it even more.

One minute she was in a room, and another; her hair is tugged at, as her skin warmful grinds down through the shadowy hallway, tongue tied and awe stricken.

The first lash against her back appears to draw her out of her reverie, with reality scratching to settle, and so did the second smack from the same whip.

Ailith lays face down, devoid of understanding, her mind relents in peplixity from the unfathomable scenery and flipping event.

"Thirteen!"

The masked man let loose another strike against her back. Her skin rips part ways, and every dropping pain was lost in the tune of her mind.

"What's is going on?"

Her monologues didn't seem to have cease. Everything physical was in a swaying motion, blurry, hazy and foggy.

"What is this man doing to me?"

"Twenty seven!"

Another went, aimed for the same area.

Her clothes were in total shreds; her crimson blood now coats the spines of the whip hitting mercilessly against her bare skin, so did every lash draw upon every bit of strength her body held.

She was unconsciously conscious, aware but in total oblivion.

Every second kept drawing her into her subconscious, and memories that lies within the confines of this state pours, rushing forth like a tsunami.

Her questions of 'How?' slowly grounds an answer, as she remains a victim to her own mind, drawn aback into the memories that were another's but still hers. A memory she never knew she has.

"My Lords!"

The echoes of the past reverberates in her consciousness, as she watches Aeirmish bow curtly at the hooded supposed council men, and then made his way to pick up what seems to be her body that laid lifeless.

"I'm sorry" he says under breath, while lifting her body and then made his way to the door. His face showed how much he disdains his act.

"Where do you think you're taking me to?"

She watched in surprise, at an act she couldn't remember doing: watching herself yank from his hands, landing on the floor, her eyes glowing brightly green, as she walks to Aeirmish, causing him to retrograde and run back.

"Thirty eight!" The pull and call from reality was strong, but the memories of her subconscious were rooted deep enough to keep her within its grip.

"That spell was meant to keep you unconscious for another eighteen hours, but how... How are you awake?"

Still within the shackles of her trance, Aeirmish stares at a mirrored image of her in disbelieve, while trying to ease up the shaking his body underwent.

"Impossible!"

He screams in fear at her as she approached him.

"Your magic is so pitiful. Did you expect a spell of such level to have effect on me, the duchess of Morgith?"

"Morgith? Who's that?" Her subconsious was clearly playing tricks on her, 'cause she couldn't recall a name as morgith. Ailith watched within her mind, as memories of herself walks forward and stops, snaps her thumb against the second finger, repelling Aeirmish. The force knocks him off his feet while sending him in the air, landing him in front of the hooded men, who were already in alert but still stood calmly and composed.

"I won't let the likes of you do what ever you please anymore. I made that mistake once, and I won't do it again."

And again, something she totally has no clue about, but she watched herself say them.

"You didn't even say a spell?!"

Her eyes is drawn from the images of herself to Aeirmish standing up still in a frit, and grunting from the pain. She watches as he pats his clothes; taking off the dust that clings to its surface, break his knuckles, bends his neck, and attempted a counter attack.

"Éc lair folgore"

He conjures a ball of lighting with both his hands, and sent its volts at the image she sees of herself.

Ailith watched the ball of lighting fly towards her dopple ganger, and as she stretches her hands at it, stopping its motion.

"Blitz éc lair folgore"

The bolt tripled in size, and it is redirected back at Aeirmish, scaring the floor and creating a huge explosion that breaks through the barrier Aeirmish had created, but he took a minor damage.

Ailith couldn't see herself in the light of what she currently watches, and yet again, Ailith's attention was drawn from the mirage of herself and where Aeirmish laid, to the hooded men who surrounded her visioned personality, safely securing it in the middle.

"Enough! We cannot let the grounds of the high mage be desecrated in such manner" The cloaked men were obviously angered.

"Anaiem

inashura, anaiem

reverum, modea

satium

amier."

In unison, they chant a spell.

"You maybe powerful, but you cannot escape the effects of the Ossuiem incantation. It weakens the heart and seizes movement."

One of the hooded men added.

"Forty!" Another lash from the whip harshly strikes her physical body, and the voices in her memory begin to echo in her head, as reality's tug-of-war with her subconscious became more pronounced.

"Its only a matter of time before your skills are put to good use as the servant to Emperor Alphaeus Medes." The same cloaked man pushed further his words.

The physical's pull on her mind firmly draws her from her semi conscious state, back to reality.

She finally gives in, welcoming the feels of the whip on her back.

She screams in pain, fully awake to what reality had saved in its store for her.

"Forty nine!"

The masked man calls out after landing his penultimate strike. He hesitates the last, filled his lungs with air, and delivers a power pack final lash.

"Fifty!"

He wraps the whole embodiment of the whip around his arm, and with the other, he pulls her by the hair and drags her naked body on the grounds of the dark corridor again.

This time was different from the first, she was partially conscious then, and the pain didn't matter, but now, widely awake, each threshing motion her skin made on the stony grounds, sent stabbing pains all around her.

She is held up, and thrown against the floor, landing inside a big hall, that held four beautifully embroidered tapestry, a seat at the far end and a man who sits upon it, holding unto a half filled chalice between his fingers.

"Never hold your head up in my presence, nor question me ever again. I might not be so benevolent next time, and your punishment will be far worse than today's."

The same intimidating presence envelopes the room, but rather than spacing out, she forces her courage forth, and embraces every cascading mental terror she faces.

"Take away this disgustful being from my sight -" He scowls at the man that stands behind Ailith "- get the healers to tend for her wounds, and have the maids prepare her for the bridal ritual."

She finally understands, the seeping darkness and bloodlust that seethes around the world she lives. There were men who would drain your blood and feast on your flesh, and wouldn't even flinch or feel remorse.

Branded by life, away from the illusions that shielded and blinded many, Ailith swore upon her dropping blood, a vow to keep her feet running, a promise, a curse, a task, a mission.

Greàboa, a kingdom soaked in secrets; its foundations built upon the corpses and slaughter of many. Good or bad, its roots were tainted with blood.