The Empress was weary, but ready. A weight rested on her chiselled shoulders as she sequestered herself to her chambers. That weight was not the weight of fear for the violence to come. Battle did not knot her shoulders; it was the wait that made her anxious. Joycelyn Zambrano found, of late, that governing included a whole lot of waiting and talking. Every day she felt as though she had drifted further and further away from what drove her.
Empress Zambrano shed the trappings of her office.
-Becoming Joycelyn Zambrano, just Joycelyn- Joyce- Joy.
A deep exhale sought to release the tension from her neck, unsuccessfully. She rolled her shoulders and cricked her head to the side to feel the pop of relief. It did not reach the root of her tension, but it took her mind off it, like a placebo, a cooling kolto patch to soothe a festering wound.
Cleaning her face, she looked in the mirror and inspected the marks of age. She could see her mother in them: The sharpness of her nose, the creases of her eyes, and the curve of her lips. While so many looked into Joycelyn's face and saw her father, she looked at herself and saw the people of Vahl. A small smile played in the corners of her mouth, urged by a memory reflected in water dripping from the tip of her nose and landing in the pool beneath.
The scent of the ritual fire filled her nose as she muttered her prayers before her altar to Vahl. The words tumbled from her lips, as if they were pulled from her lungs by an alien force. The words stopped, the prayers completed, her left hand reached for the bundle set before the fire. With a flick of her fingers, the fabric unfurled and the bone-clad object beneath enveloped itself in her hand. With the most subtle 'click' an invisible dividing line parted and exposed the metal within as the blade was drawn from its sheath.
"For victory, for power, and the wisdom to guide in your image."
Joycelyn put the razor to her chest and drew a thin line. Red welled up to fill the thin gap, like a sabre ignited. Above and below it were silver lines echoing rituals past.
"Vahl- We give the blood of warriors, the flesh of wise women, and the souls of the accusers."
With a white cloth, she wiped blood from the blade and from her chest. The red ravenously consumed the white, then was placed in the ritual flames. Joycelyn curled a lock of her hair around her finger and brought the knife up to cut it off, but hesitated. The black hair unfurled itself as she lowered the knife and touched the wound she had inflicted on herself. With a flick, it was extended, and a second part of the ritual offered. Her lips thinned and teeth ground together in pain. Finally, she drew a deep breath and exhaled over the sizzling flame as if pouring her soul into it.
A patch of Kolto soothed her wounds as she crept into her bed. The smell of burnt flesh still lingered in her nose, and the weight still pressed between her shoulder blades. Yet, in time, sleep enveloped her.
A flash of light made her twitch, and it took a moment for Joycelyn to realise it was not part of the dream already fading from memory as urgency gripped her.
Throwing herself to the side, Joyce rolled out of her bed and retrieved the blaster attached underneath her bedframe. In a second or less, she had it pointed at the source of the light. However, upon seeing it, her hands dropped to her sides and her head cocked to the side in bemusement. She rose to her feet and placed the blaster on the bedside table, not taking her eyes from the mote of red light dominating her chamber. The light pulsed gently, causing Joycelyn to pause, then approach.
She felt a strange force draw her in, whispering in her ears and tugging at her very essence.
Gingerly, Joycelyn Zambrano reached out to the red light. And when her fingers made contact with it, reality burst at the seams.
Come morning, the Empress' retainers were worried. She was often awake at this time, and yet they had heard nothing. Finally gathering their courage, the door was opened. Smoke welled out of the room to meet them, but they pressed their way in regardless. The Empress was missing, and so was her sword, Zaudraka. Her clothes lay crumpled on the floor, her bed was in disarray, but there were no signs of a struggle.
Throughout the palace spread rumour and disarray.
Empress Zambrano shed the trappings of her office.
-Becoming Joycelyn Zambrano, just Joycelyn- Joyce- Joy.
A deep exhale sought to release the tension from her neck, unsuccessfully. She rolled her shoulders and cricked her head to the side to feel the pop of relief. It did not reach the root of her tension, but it took her mind off it, like a placebo, a cooling kolto patch to soothe a festering wound.
Cleaning her face, she looked in the mirror and inspected the marks of age. She could see her mother in them: The sharpness of her nose, the creases of her eyes, and the curve of her lips. While so many looked into Joycelyn's face and saw her father, she looked at herself and saw the people of Vahl. A small smile played in the corners of her mouth, urged by a memory reflected in water dripping from the tip of her nose and landing in the pool beneath.
The scent of the ritual fire filled her nose as she muttered her prayers before her altar to Vahl. The words tumbled from her lips, as if they were pulled from her lungs by an alien force. The words stopped, the prayers completed, her left hand reached for the bundle set before the fire. With a flick of her fingers, the fabric unfurled and the bone-clad object beneath enveloped itself in her hand. With the most subtle 'click' an invisible dividing line parted and exposed the metal within as the blade was drawn from its sheath.
"For victory, for power, and the wisdom to guide in your image."
Joycelyn put the razor to her chest and drew a thin line. Red welled up to fill the thin gap, like a sabre ignited. Above and below it were silver lines echoing rituals past.
"Vahl- We give the blood of warriors, the flesh of wise women, and the souls of the accusers."
With a white cloth, she wiped blood from the blade and from her chest. The red ravenously consumed the white, then was placed in the ritual flames. Joycelyn curled a lock of her hair around her finger and brought the knife up to cut it off, but hesitated. The black hair unfurled itself as she lowered the knife and touched the wound she had inflicted on herself. With a flick, it was extended, and a second part of the ritual offered. Her lips thinned and teeth ground together in pain. Finally, she drew a deep breath and exhaled over the sizzling flame as if pouring her soul into it.
A patch of Kolto soothed her wounds as she crept into her bed. The smell of burnt flesh still lingered in her nose, and the weight still pressed between her shoulder blades. Yet, in time, sleep enveloped her.
A flash of light made her twitch, and it took a moment for Joycelyn to realise it was not part of the dream already fading from memory as urgency gripped her.
Throwing herself to the side, Joyce rolled out of her bed and retrieved the blaster attached underneath her bedframe. In a second or less, she had it pointed at the source of the light. However, upon seeing it, her hands dropped to her sides and her head cocked to the side in bemusement. She rose to her feet and placed the blaster on the bedside table, not taking her eyes from the mote of red light dominating her chamber. The light pulsed gently, causing Joycelyn to pause, then approach.
She felt a strange force draw her in, whispering in her ears and tugging at her very essence.
Ď̶̞̙̪̺́̄̅̿̚̚ḁ̸͋̒̾̌̏ǘ̷̪̫̱̺̱͖͍̳̗̯͕̱͇͋ģ̵̨̠̩͚̜̩̠̱̿̉̂͑̀̀̈́̍̏̎̊̚̚h̸̨͇̮͇̞̺̣̩̘͑̓̍̃̈́̂̕͜ͅt̵͚̙͑ē̷̛̻̤̰̲̲̖̇͂̌̄̾̋r̸̤͇͓͛̀̃̔̂̊͊̉͒̆̽́̑̚
Gingerly, Joycelyn Zambrano reached out to the red light. And when her fingers made contact with it, reality burst at the seams.
Come morning, the Empress' retainers were worried. She was often awake at this time, and yet they had heard nothing. Finally gathering their courage, the door was opened. Smoke welled out of the room to meet them, but they pressed their way in regardless. The Empress was missing, and so was her sword, Zaudraka. Her clothes lay crumpled on the floor, her bed was in disarray, but there were no signs of a struggle.
Throughout the palace spread rumour and disarray.
