Tales from Rokkvalfa

Disclaimer: The following is an original work. All characters, concepts, names, places, etc. within belong to me. Please respect that.

Warning: Nothing too terrible....for now. That may change later on though.

A/N: This will be a series of interconnected short snippets of characters living in Rokkvalfa. Rokkvalfa is one of many lands existing within Anksth. Anksth is a world belonging to Khaos Ink (a writing group consisting of myself and two of my best friends) as such any names, concepts, characters, ideas, etc. belong solely to us and us alone, and should be respected as such.

Now on with the writing....

A/N#2: This piece was originally written at 3am on a New Years Eve a couple of years ago...as a result really requires some beta\'ing (not that it\'s illegible or horrible....I just ended up with a bizarre tendency to switch tenses which for a perfectionist such as myself....grates).


Death of the Tamarin

Candlelight flickered and danced along the burgundy and gold decorated walls, melding with the larger illumination created by the rather enormous fireplace. Combined with the soft, sweet smell of sandalwood and pine, the atmosphere was congenial, comfortable and inviting. The smoke from incense curling lazily through the air as if it had all the time in the world. The chambers themselves were lavishly done in deeply polished mahogany, embossed and embellished with gold, and burgundy. Yet for the all the apparent riches, the living quarters were considered modest in the minds of Surtibra´s nobility.

Nestling among thick heavy blankets in a cushioned straight backed chair with beautifully carved mahogany arms resembling roaring lions, with one leg dangling over the edge of one arm, the other drawn up so that a hand holding a thick leather bound book could rest upon the knee, sat a young looking man with straight silken blonde hair. Slim, lithe legs were encased in tight, casual brown rhezyn pants matched by the reddish brown vest threaded with gold over a gleaming white silk shirt. The youth did not look up from his book when the door opened, as only one person would dare to enter his chambers without announcing themselves first.

The man that entered was as different from the one sitting in the chair as night was from day. Taller and broader without being bulky he was as dark in colour as the younger was light. Thick, unruly moss coloured hair that hung longer in the front than the back, where it barely curled against the nap of the neck. Earthy bronzed skin glowed in the firelight. Large, wide chocolate brown eyes of such richness and warmth that one could easily drown in them like liquid fur. Strong, ruggedly honest features, which had somehow managed to survive, untouched through years at the treacherous, backstabbing intrigues of the Court. Dressed humbly in a shirt and leathers of forest green and browns, he bowed as the door shut behind him.

No sound save for the occasional rustling of pages echoed through the room for several minutes as the darker figure stood patiently, studying his Lord while awaiting acknowledgment of his presence. He would wait, quietly, patiently all night if needs be and that certainly was his Lords´ right, though many other warriors of the court would se that as reason enough to plot betrayal. That was after all how many of the present nobles had advanced-by having more power and cunning and sheer blood minded ruthlessness than the ones before them.

With a quick sweeping gaze, he took in all the sites of the room, only relaxing once he was certain that everything was secure, that no danger was present, at which point his gaze once more rested firmly on his master. Taking note of the effortless care with which the young noble maintained his illusions. Though it should not have come as much of a surprise. Illusions and glamour were one of the nobles´ more minor talents, something he had mastered long ago as a child. A fact that would no doubt come as a great surprise to most of the Court. They all had a tendency to underestimate the youth. But then again that was part of the disguise, had been from the beginning.

Just like the barely shoulder length hair, and sparkling green eyes were. Even the pale, nearly translucently so, skin was a part of the disguise, an illusion all aimed for one purpose to disarm. A tactic that worked all too well as the Court considered the young man nothing but a weak, useless fop who was utterly incapable of posing a threat to them. The Tamarin´s personal bodyguard, for that was who the older of the two was, briefly wondered if anyone in Surtibra remembered anymore what the other truly looked like. Those that had known at one point had probably forgotten, having become so accustomed to the glamour that they came to believe it as truth, as reality.

Had forgotten that the hair is really a waterfall of spun gold, cascading down lean shoulders. Forgotten that the green eyes while pretty now are actually the deep, indescribable colour of burning emeralds. Forgotten that the skin while pale is not so near translucent but rather glimmers with a metallic sheen as if dusted with a fine layer of silver, like the shimmering of full moonlight on iced snow. A shame but they have both come to see the necessity of the illusion.

Long golden lashes sweep up from the crinkled pages at last, as the book is put down, settled in the youth’s lap as green eyes rise to meet calm brown ones. He sighs.

“He is dead. Isn’t he?” A soft sigh. The voice strong yet lilting with a vague musical quality to it that cannot be placed. As if the owner is speaking at two different ranges at once. One low and commanding, the other soft and seductive.

“Yes my Lord Silfiel.” Always so polite, that steady, deep yet gentle voice like the leaves of some mighty forest rustling in a spring breeze. Smiling faintly Silfiel uncoiled himself from the chair, rising languidly, letting the book he had not really been reading at all drop to the chair.

“Yrja, how many times have I told you not to be so formal in private?” A matching smile ghosted along Yrja´s lips.

“I seem to have lost count, my Lord.” The old time humour between them helped to ease the tension that had begun to well up earlier. A moment of joviality that Silfiel allowed himself before turning sombre again, before turning to the more pressing matters at hand.

“How much time do you think we have?” Yrja straightened visible at the question and slid into superior-to-inferior warrior mode as he replied honestly without embellishment.

“Not much. News of your father’s death will already be spreading through the Court, trickling down from the highest to the lowest. Soon the first of the vultures will begin to circle.” Yrja inclined his head slightly at the door. “You can be sure that some of the more influential will arrive tonight. As for the rest..” he shrugged. “I cannot say for certain till the Trials. Though you can count on the scheming and attempts to start before then.” Silfiel sighed, lowering his head in thought as he absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair. He knew all too well the ways of the Court, the intricacies of the lethal dance that was Rokkvalfa way of life. The complexities and delicate manoeuvring required to survive would put even the infamous Fae court to shame.

“And you Yrja. Where will you be when the madness descends?” Too serious green eyes focused on him with a piercing gaze. The question was to be expected under the circumstances, though perhaps a bit overly blunt for their place and people.

“I will be by your side of course my Lord. Protecting you as is my duty.” Yrja answered with complete sincere truthfulness. Honesty repaid with honesty. Burning green eyes stare back at him fathomless as the illusion drops. Emerald fires that sear, peeling away layer upon layer to see the soul splayed naked before their gaze. It is a stare that Yrja has never been on the receiving end of before.

Then it is gone. As suddenly as a star flickering out as the disguise settles itself back over his features, the air around him seems to dim as if a misty veil had been drawn. But the soft smile holds a radiance all its own as a warm, friendly laughter bubbles up.

“Ah Yrja. You really are too loyal. One day I’ll figure out why.” Silfiel continues to smile as he cocks one hip against the massive wooden table, arms crossed, his posture radiating ease, the young noble begins to say more when an abrupt knock on the chamber door redirects both their attentions.

Tensing Silfiel eyed the door as it almost immediately swung open. A deliberate rudeness and slight that-to enter another’s personal sanctuary without permission. It showed that whoever it was held him in contempt while remaining subtle about the fact. Yrja has already moved into a position optimal for defending Silfiel should whoever it is prove to be a threat. And upon seeing who his uninvited guest is he is more than grateful for that silent support that is Yrja.

Lyranthello. The noble glides in as if he owns the world. A lord surveying a piece of his land-a shoddy bit at that. Dressed as impeccably and elegantly, and as always just enough on the right side of propriety and decorum to avoid scrutiny. Smooth grey trousers of some gossamer material that slithers and slides sibilantly making every movement a sigh, are tucked into soft leather boots of a darker grey lacing up to just below the knee that soundlessly ghost over the floor. The long sleeved misty blue rhezyn tunic entwined with the same gossamer material as the trousers was finely embroidered with silver, the sleeves clinging tightly to the arms until just past the elbows where the material steadily widened till a good bit of material hung from the wrists without hindering movement. Slit on both sides and up the front with only intricately carved ivory toggles and a sash holding it closed, the over all effect of the tunic was one of melancholy sensuality. With the silver shifting and shimmering in the slightest light, an appearance of dew on spider webs, captured starlight reflecting back on the observer.

Artic blonde hair pulled back in a series of elaborate braids with a few strands artfully left to frame that sharp, angular face. Pale, frosted blue eyes surveyed everything before them with the same chilly frigidity that their colour resembled. Though smiling politely the act was laced with poisonous contempt and disdain.

Yrja kept as suspicious watch on him from the moment he entered the room, eyeing him warily as one would a coiled snake. Despite his somewhat ageless appearance, it was well known that Lyranthello was one of the oldest nobles at Court. Though little else was known about him. No one knew exactly how old though. In fact, it seemed that as far as anyone present knew-young or old-Lyranthello had always been a part of the Court-as far as memory stretched. Whatever the truth was, one thing was for certain…he was not someone to make an enemy off. Not easily, not lightly. A fact, which he hoped, Silfiel would remember in spite of his inherent dislike of the other Lord.

Dipping his head in a courteous bow, never even a hairs breath more than is necessary for showing respect among equals, Lyran smiled slightly. On anyone else that smile would have been reassuring, on him it made him look like a blade sharpening.

“My condolences to you Lord Silfiel on such a tragic night.” Rote words dripping from thin, honeyed lips like so much well-dressed, sweet sewage.

“Your sincerity, as always, is appreciated my Lord Lyranthello.” Silfiel inclined his head slightly forward in polite acknowledgment. Veiled words as the proverbial sword was drawn. Now with his father’s passing, with the future as uncertain as it was, perhaps it was time for the Court to see that he was not all that they perceived him to be.

Lyran smiled faintly at the well-placed verbal jab. So the gloves were off. An interesting start to the conversation, one he had not entirely expected. Though perhaps not so surprising, as the boy’s line, whatever else their faults might be, had never lacked intelligence.

“As difficult as this must be for you, there are matters that need to be addressed.” Stiffly formal. Painfully polite. Challenge accepted and answered. Meanings upon meanings draped themselves over harmless seeming words.

“Of course. How may I be of assistance?” Assistance not service. Position declared. We are equals. Yrja unconsciously clenched and unclenched the muscles in his jaws. He never liked these political dances. Beautiful in their intricacies yet twice as lethal. Bad enough when they were cold, calculated. Worse when they became personal as now. It made the danger rise exponentially.

“Before beginning I would appreciate some refreshment. Some wine perhaps?” One thin, delicately arched eyebrow rose in emphasis of the words, reminding him of his lapse in common courtesy.

“Of course.” Thrust and parry. Silfiel kept up that false smile though he felt like grimacing. As if the mask of vapid politeness had been painted on. The wet enamel peeling and cracking.

Yrja needed no verbal command to begin moving. No sooner had Silfiel´s assent been given before Yrja found himself pouring sweetly spiced sunflower wine from an ornate silver flask into two equally ornate silver goblets, their long stems twisted like ivy.