The Fate of Priora

There weren't always dragons in the valley. Thoughts of magical beasts and heroic figures had long been the fancies of the young, but the world had tasted war, and the once quiet and peaceful valley had become a battlefield for heroes to rise. Time had passed since the flight of the last dragon, the physical scars had healed, but the insidious venom of the dragon’s fall seeped through the veins of the kingdom of Antia, flushing its golden blood and replacing it with the fetid ichor of starvation and greed. Were there still heroes to fight the phantoms and fairies that infected the land or had all the heroes succumb to the seductive lure of conquest? A changing wind filled the trees and fields, but what change would it bring, only the Weaver could say.

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The midday sun pierced through the light canopy of the chestnut trees, dangling intangible threads of gold throughout the shaded nook below. A soft wind ran across the tall grass in the nearby field, making the sea of green flow like the tide. It was peaceful in the orchards surrounding the majestic city of Priora, a sharp contrast to the hustle and bustle of the metropolis just beyond the fields. While lawyers argued the philosophy of the day and the merchants filled the markets with the crowing sounds of peddling wares, the green belt outside of the city proved simple and quiet. A tawny road stretched out from the eastern edge of the city, snaking through the fields and trees, giving a vague sense of connection between the simplicity of the countryside and the opulence of the city.

Little Josephine padded through the rows of trees, gathering what fallen nuts she could fit in the apron of her dress. Her father often brought her to the green belt to forage, and she enjoyed the opportunity to gaze on the great city and dream about what it might be like within her walls. Her eight years, while harsh amidst the bitter harvests of the previous years, had preserved an innocence and wonder that made her foraging trips a treat. She slipped through the orchard rows to her favorite spot on the hillside, nestled in a cradled trench on the edge of the tree line. The unassuming space was the perfect size for a small girl to rest and the branches of the nearest tree drooped perfectly to act as a decadent shade. Josephine wedged herself into the spot and smiled at the vista before her.

As the chirping of the birds and the hum of the wind filled her ears, Josephine was startled by something else breaking the silence. The sound of whispering invaded the peaceful moment she had stolen for herself. It wasn’t clear, but the soft babbling was certainly out of place. She looked around, but saw nothing she could determine to be the source of the chaotic din.

“H-Hello…?” she stammered into the empty air. No response. The babbling grew louder, though remained incoherent, as if it were the product of a thousand whispering voices. The young girl grew even more frightened and scrambled to her feet, a cascade of chestnuts tumbling over the ground before her. As panic slipped over the young girl, she raced through the trees, desperately seeking to escape the sound that continued to fill her head. East, west, north, south, around one tree and another, Josephine fled, but no matter what direction she ran the sound grew more overwhelming. The cacophony became too much for Josephine, causing her to collapse and clutch her ears in desperation for relief.

“Quiet! Quiet!! QUIET!!!” Josephine’s throat burned as she shrilled out her desperate plea. As suddenly as it had begun, the noise ceased. Josephine tentatively looked up from her huddled shelter, uncertain if her episode had truly concluded. The silence was unsettling in its abruptness, but the eeriness rose as she began to notice how complete it was. No sound of the city in the distance, no sound of the birds, not even the sound of the wind through the grass, nothing could be heard. The panic that the girl thought had passed was now returning with mounting dread. Looking around for anyone to help her, save her, Josephine could not find any escape from this nightmare.

“Through day and night, through dark and light, the wheel will always turn”

Josephine was startled to hear the mischievous singing among the trees. Her eyes darted around, looking for the source. Perhaps it was an answer to her calls for deliverance, though it could have easily been a deeper level to her terror.

“Up and down, round and round, what you build will burn”

Josephine continued to look around for the source before catching sight of a figure darting through the trees. Cautiously, the young girl rose to her feet and padded closer to the area where she last spotted the flurry of movement, glancing from side to side in an attempt to remain alert. With cautious intent she moved to peer around a bent tree, pressing herself close to the gnarled bark as if trying to become one with it. Against the solid trunk, Josephine became firmly aware of how violently she was trembling, hearing the fear stutter in her breath in starts and stops. Her need to know what creature giggled and hummed around the turn of her sheltering tree outweighed the paralyzing apprehension that gripped her and she slowly peeked her head out.

Nothing. All that stood before her was the silent road sweeping off toward the imposing walls standing beyond the verdant field before her. Josephine’s eyes darted from tree to tree, her spine tingling as she felt even more exposed than she had before. Though unseen, she could feel a presence near her, watching her. She slowly lifted her eyes to the branches arching above her head, fear gripping her as her field of vision grew closer and closer to revealing what she had reluctantly been searching for.

Just above Josephine’s eyeline peered an upside-down face with an impossibly wide grin. The face belonged to an impish looking being, the size of a small child, hanging from a limb by its knobby little knees. The imp’s stringy hair hung down from its head like limp, greasy worms and earth laden roots, and its tiny frame was covered in a tattered and torn patchwork of various fabrics ranging in tones of mud and spoiled cherry.

As repulsive as the features of the creature appeared, one feature stood out like a candle in a starless night. The creature’s eyes were terrifying and mesmerizing, deep pools of red the color of molten metal and gluttonous coals, subtly cracked with veins of garnet. The eyes were like the depths of a cataclysm, terrible and horrific but undeniably alluring. They sat fixed in their place, not meandering as most eyes do, but locked like the eyes of a sentinel statue infused with primal flame. The pupils appeared like pitch black sinkholes in a sanguine sea that plunged into an infinite abyss. The creature’s gaze was inescapable and all consuming.

“The weavers will weep, the farmers will reap, the scholars will foolishly blunder,” The imp swung itself from the bough with the athletic grace of an acrobat. As it lifted itself from its landing, it leered menacingly over its shoulder at the young girl. “A dragon will fly, devious and sly, and tear the world asunder”.

Josephine couldn’t move, her body frozen in feverish panic, tears welling in her eyes as a silent scream clawed its way up her throat. Her hands unconsciously found the intricately embroidered prayer sash she had tied to the rough cloth belt of her dress, gripping at it in a vain appeal to ward off the red-eyed imp. The creature simply stalked over to her and plucked the sash from her trembling hands, studying it with a wild look. The imp giggled sharply, lifting the sash to the girl’s eyes and tore it in two as easily as a sheet of parchment.

“Now little child, it’s time you see the wonders and horrors that are to be, don’t be afraid to follow me and know what it costs to truly be free,” The creature swiftly reached out and grabbed Josephine’s face, each cheek gripped by calloused hands with long, jagged nails. It pulled her face close to its own, locking her gaze with its own burning eyes. Josephine found herself plummeting into the dark pits of the creature’s pupils and as she became consumed in their vast emptiness, the chaotic symphony from before struck up and filled her mind in an overwhelming crescendo. This time her screams joined the chorus.

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The screams pierced Gerard’s heart, chilling every bone in his body with overwhelming dread. His daughter’s shrill cries echoed through the rows of trees, making it difficult for him to locate the direction of their source. He raced through the orchard, his wild eyes frantically sweeping his surroundings to find his way to the shrieking girl. He could hear the strain taking hold of Josephine’s voice, each scream becoming broken and quiet. He sprinted out onto the high road, nearly losing his footing as his boots skidded over the loose dirt and stones. The last drop of sound hissed out of his daughter’s screams as he shot a look down the road to the edge of the tree line.

He found the young girl standing like a milepost facing out at the great city beyond. She stood unmoving, a dissonant picture to the horrific sound that had come before. No terrors, no nightmares dancing in the daylight, not a sight to give cause to the violent cries. Gerard gasped deeply for what little breath he could reclaim, shuffling quickly toward his silent child. He reached out, gripping her shoulder and pivoting her to look at him. What he saw caused him to reflexively recoil in horror. After a moment of shock, he pulled Josephine into his arms, collapsed to his knees and cried for help.

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Frans snapped his whip causing the elegant coach to thunder down the road to Priora. His master was quite insistent on reaching the city before midday and they had already been delayed three times on the road from the country. One more delay and Frans was certain he would burst into flames from the pure frustrated fury that was mounting every second. He snapped the whip again with a shrieky “HYA!” and squinted his eyes against the blinding sun. Sweat dripped down his sunburnt face and he shifted his stocky rump uncomfortably on his stiff driver’s bench. The coach crested the hill leading into the valley of the green belt, with the majestic image of Priora rising just beyond, and Frans let out an exhausted sigh filled with mild relief that his destination was in sight. The shade from the orchard was a welcome reprieve from the oppressive sun as the coach dipped down the hill with an eager gallop. Frans closed his eyes and pictured the local tavern, with sweet wine and even sweeter barmaids, that he would prance himself off to as soon as he unloaded his master at the château. A lecherous grin split his chapped face as he dreamed of the long-awaited revels, humming his favorite drinking song before opening his eyes to pilot through the last stretch of the orchards.

Quickly, Frans was snapped from his pleasant escape, yanking back on the reins as hard as his stocky arms could, causing the coach to stagger into a sudden stop. Frans glanced around in mild panic before his gaze fell on the cause of the sudden stop: two commoners huddled in the middle of the road. He spit in anger, his hairy fist lifting his whip with the pure intent to strike true on the dirty peasants causing this most recent delay. “What are you shit-swallows doing in the middle of my road?” he bellowed.

The drably dressed man looked up with wide, tear filled eyes as he clutched his daughter into his chest. The look in his eyes was a mix of panic, fear, and pleading submission. As he rocked back and forth, he wheezed a nearly silent plea. “Please help us”.

Frans growled through gritted yellowing teeth. “Oh, I’ll give you some help. I’ll help you to a taste of this leather!” He snorted as he drew back the lash. The man on the ground huddled around the little girl as the whip snapped just to his side. Frans bellowed in anger at his faulty aim and lifted himself to his feet on the driver’s bench. He drew the whip back for another strike, his eyes bulging with wrath, and he gave a guttural yell.

“Stop” A smooth voice emanated from inside the coach. Frans flashed a confused glance down at the coach door as it glided open and his master placed a foot onto the step bar. The master’s boots, made of fine leather and perfectly fit to his calves, moved like the skin of a soft snake as their wearer pulled himself from the coach. His frock coat was made in fabrics of the deepest green, as if emeralds were spun into velvety brocade, with a high collar that obscured his face. As he slipped out of the coach, he pulled on a pair of doeskin gloves and walked casually toward the desperate man weeping on the ground. “What is wrong with the child?” the nobleman asked in a silky tone, studying the limp figure in the man’s arms.

Gerald looked up to meet the nobleman’s gaze. He quickly found himself calm and mesmerized whether from the fatigue setting in, or the hypnotic quality of the nobleman’s mismatched pupils. “My-my daughter…”

The nobleman crouched down, placing a hand on the young girl’s shoulder, and gently turned her to face him. Tracks of crimson streaked across her face like deltas of a blood river. Her eyes were drowned in the scarlet tears, concealing any hint of the color that had been within them before. Despite the unconscious state she appeared to be in, her eyes remained wide open.

“Franz, my case, bring it to me,” the man called back, urgency breaking through his previously calm exterior.

“My lord?” The coachman scrunched up his face in a confused grimace.

The nobleman shot a look back at Franz, sending a piercing stare at his man. “Now!”.

Franz fumbled his way off of the coach, stumbling to get the door open. Giving a quick glance over the plush cushions and richly adorned trappings of the cab, the coachman soon locked eyes on the ornate wooden box nestled in the seat next to where its master had been. His gaze lingered on the deeply stained wood and the intricately etched clasps of his master’s case, fueling the valet’s curiosity.

“Franz!”

The coachman bared his teeth in mild frustration and snatched the box up in both arms, pressing it hard to his chest, before loping over to the group. As he placed the case on the ground, Franz glanced at the young girl and recoiled.

“By the Weaver! She has the scarlet tears!” He shuffled back, his eyes wide with panic. “We shouldn’t be here, m’lord. It is a bad omen, bad omen sir”.

Without a look to distract him, the nobleman lifted a hand to silence his valet. He flipped the clasps of the box open and lifted the top, revealing numerous compartments, many filled with glass bottles and jars, some empty and some containing herbs and tinctures. The nobleman plucked an empty glass vial from one of the compartments and, removing the cork, pressed it to the young girl’s cheek. The crimson substance oozed into the vial filling it quickly. The nobleman lifted the vial against the noonday sun, peering through the sanguine prism. His gaze lingered, widening with fascination and excited curiosity.

A shuddering whimper escaped the young girl’s lips, breaking the nobleman from his reverie. He returned the vile to his case with hastened yet meticulous care and turned to Josephine. As the nobleman studied the girl’s countenance, her eyes cleared, the blood red color fading into clear glassiness, like wet ivory above red stained cheeks.

“Lay her on the ground, now!” The nobleman barked at the girl’s father. Snatching a small knife from his case, he pivoted to where Gerard had laid Josephine on the ground, propped the girl’s mouth open, and jammed the handle of the knife between her teeth.

In the space of a heartbeat, Josephine’s eyes rolled back so far it appeared that only the whites of her eyes existed and she began to violently shake and stiffen. Gerald’s eyes filled with tears of panic as his whisper of a voice scratched out pleas for the Weaver to save his child. The nobleman straddled the young girl, working to keep her neck straight and the knife’s handle between her teeth. As quickly as it began, it faded away, the young girl’s eyes relaxing before drooping in exhaustion.

The nobleman slowly removed the knife handle from Josephine’s mouth, slipping an arm underneath her to lift her up slightly. He studied her face with a sense of intense curiosity, locking his uneven eyes with hers. Slowly he leaned into her, the collar of his frock brushing against her cheek. With his voice soft as the passing breeze, he whispered “What did you see?”.

The girl’s eyes widened slightly, glistening with welling tears. Slowly she turned her head to look down the road, past the tree line, pointedly at the rising walls of Priora. The nobleman’s gaze followed the girl’s and peaked with a dawning understanding. He lowered the girl back to the ground and straightened, rising up with steady determination. He placed the knife back in his case before plucking out a small vial filled with a milky tincture.

“The rest of her days will be filled with waking nightmares. Her nights will be far worse,” the nobleman quickly stated to Gerald, turning to him and holding out the vial. “This will help her sleep and numb the dreams somewhat. Just a drop in her evening tea, no more, and she will have a night of peace”.

He handed the vial to Gerald before turning to close up his case and stride determinately toward the carriage. He waved a hand at Franz, who eagerly stumbled his way back onto the driver’s bench. The nobleman placed the case back into the cab of the carriage before glancing back at the man scooping up his daughter.

“Should your conscience see fit to give her a more lasting peace, give her the full contents of the vial,” He pulled himself into the carriage, tapping the roof.

Franz snapped the reins and pulled the horses back around on the road, driving straight toward the great city. The nobleman stared out at the tall grass on the greenbelt, watching as the rippling tide caused by the summer breeze shifted from east to west, bowing toward the horizon of the descending sun.