Despite being a girl, of the fresh-faced seventeen and in bloom variety, she towered over the little gutter rat. Most men either met her eye to eye or struggled onto their tippy toes to try. Cursed or blessed with great height and reach, Myra was able to counter any of Jeff's attempts at attacking her. She waved the end of her staff back and forth whacking his hands apart, turned a knee outward to bring him to the ground, and then slid closer as if about to brain him.
But rather than finish it, Myra paused and slung the weapon over her own shoulders as if she was to carry water buckets dangling off the ends. "Can't do that, Jeff. You know how the detective gets."
"I could, uh," on his one knee, Jeff moved to reach into a pocket that was probably filled with rat droppings, "make it worth your wild."
Myra laughed at the serious look in his face, like there was anything he had that could get her to turn on her employer and mother. Suddenly, Jeff sneered and his grubby fingers lashed out for the fallen dagger. Barely shifting, Myra jammed the end of her staff onto his hand, pounding the bones into the cobbles, then twisted it back to whack under the man's chin. When poor Jeff's head snapped upward, Myra jammed the end of her staff right into his gut and leaned in.
"What else ya got?" she whispered, when a bright white light burned at the end of the alleyway.
"Myra Sayer," a shrill voice echoed down the not so silent street. Groaning, Myra tipped her head back as a woman in her early 50's, dressed in a signature yellow coat and brimmed hat sauntered onto the scene.
Reiss Sayer, fancy detective who worked for herself and anyone with coin, folded her hands up and jerked her chin at Myra, "What do you think you are doing?"
"What you told me to do," she lifted the pressure on Jeff a moment before squeezing harder into him.
Snarling, Reiss shook her head and marched closer. With one hand, she snatched onto Jeff's thin wrists and hauled him up. "I told you to play with your food?"
Suddenly, Jeff's eyes shifted from the elven woman shackling him up, to her half-human daughter who'd had him on the ropes. He cried something pathetic at the thought of Myra no doubt planning on eating him. Ugh. Guy like that'd taste of mud, shit, and smog.
"It's a metaphor, Jeff. Knock off your whining," Reiss thumped him in the back of the head to get him to shut up. "And you..." she turned to Myra who returned the staff across her shoulders. Raising both fingers up to point at herself as if she did nothing, Myra tried to look innocent. The dark blonde hair and piles of freckles sometimes fooled people, if they had a narrow idea of what innocent was. It never worked on her mother.
"A staff," Reiss turned her accusing finger to the weapon of choice.
"I didn't do any magic with it, like you instructed," Myra grumbled. She could have solved the Jeff problem in a minute, but no, we need to chase him down on foot because your mom likes to watch you run around like a rat in the pipes.
Reiss took control of Jeff, the man's fight long gone as he accepted he was once again heading back to jail. With a death grip on his shoulders, she marched him out of the alleyway. But even with a suspect, she couldn't stop haranguing her only daughter. "What happened to the sword?"
"Didn't like it," Myra muttered to herself, a finger running down the stick that had no fancy ornamentation. It wasn't really a mage's staff either; any lightning bolts she'd try to cast down it would fry the thing.
"Myra," Reiss glared at her, death coming in the color of bright green eyes, "do not mumble." She didn't elucidate her point by gesturing to the missing right ear, but Reiss whipped her head around to get the good one near her grumbling daughter.
"I said I didn't like it! The grip was all wrong and it was...it was heavy, okay," Myra shouted exasperated. "Was that loud enough for you?!"
"Yes, quite," Reiss sighed again, letting them lapse into silence as they walked a wailing Jeff through the quiet streets of Denerim. She'd lived in this city her whole life, save a few summers when they shipped Myra off to learn magic. Sometimes she missed that, getting to know what her body could do with a little coaxing of her mind to spit fire or sparkles from her fingers. But her mom needed her here, and honestly, the city was far more interesting than some old abbey healing clinic out in no man's forest.
"There's the signal from Lunet," her mom suddenly said. "Run on to the office while I take care of Jeff."
"Take care of or...take care of?" Myra asked, her head tipped down to make her eyes look maniacal.
Her mother shook her head, not answering her bait. Continuing on towards Lunet, Reiss sighed, "Do as I say for once, Myra."
The thick boots of the Solver leader carried down the better repaired cobbles while Myra tipped her head back and forth. She waited until she was certain her mother was gone before grumbling, "All I ever do is what you say, because all you ever do is order me around." Twisting with the undulating streets of the alienage section of Denerim, Myra followed the paths she knew by the soles of her feet. Her eyes trailed the old eaves and poorly laid bricks. It'd take nothing for her to scramble up the side of this apartment building and take to the roof. Maybe leap from eave to eave like a cat out on the prowl.
Rather than make good on her plan, she turned to the left and wound up in front of her mother's both agency and home. It was quiet, only the embers in the fireplace flickering. Everyone else had gone home for the day, probably because it was late into nightfall and only prostitutes, piss-collectors, and very lost people were out on the streets.
"Hey Bryn," Myra called to the silent agency. "You home?" No voice answered. Most likely her friend was working late, or found somewhere else to crash. She'd been doing that more, preferring beds closer to the castle. Psh, it wasn't that far of a jaunt. Myra'd been doing it since she could remember.
Laying her staff on Auntie Lunet's desk, Myra tugged up a file that was marked with red ink. That meant it was one of those salacious ones she wasn't supposed to know about. Flipping through the notes in Lunet's tight script, Myra sighed. Woman married to man, caught sleeping with another woman who was also sleeping with her husband. There weren't even any in depth details.
Boring. She'd been stealing and reading better dirty files since she was thirteen. Hell, the Pearl madame would recognize her on sight and sometimes ask how her schooling was going in the middle of the market. The first time Myra wanted one of those giant dragons to swoop in and gobble her whole. Now, it happened so often she'd sometimes pass notes from her mother.
With her hands free, Myra began to unplait her hair. The braid usually snaked around her neck during work, because no one wanted to deal with an armed gang while hair smacked you in the face. But she preferred to leave it free when possible. Her face looked harsher than it already was with all her hair pulled back. Tucking the green ribbon into her pocket for tomorrow's braid, Myra combed through her gold hair. Not like the pretty gold that made up shiny new coins, more that ochre-like gold that people found at the bottom of muddy ravines after a carriage went over a cliff.
After thumbing through her mother's desk and finding nothing, Myra curled up with one of her many tomes on spell casting. Most weren't very helpful, often dealing with something called entropy and how to fight off other magic users. Myra didn't care about that, any mage who went loony would be hunted by the knights or the college itself would send someone. No, she needed the destructive spells, stuff that would turn a street fight to her advantage.
Myra fell into that world of droll run-on sentences and big, fancy words because it made the writer feel super important and not at all regret how little his Daddy loved him. She was trying to weave together something that would make grease when her mother popped back in. Reiss always took her time, shaking off her signature yellow overcoat to place upon the rack before adding her hat as well. Sometimes when clients came in, they'd try talking to the hatrack first instead of any of the people.
"You home?" Reiss called, a hand digging into her shoulders.
"No, I got lost on the way back. This is a robber you're talking to. Ah s
hit, I shouldn't have said that. We're all mice back here. Nothing else. Squeak," Myra said, thumbing through her book.
What would have gotten a pursed lip from her mother a year ago only received a soft sigh. Slowly, Reiss glanced over at her daughter with her shoes up on the desk, the girl tipped back in the chair. "You should get to bed. It's late."
"We have big plans for tomorrow? Ooh, maybe we can catch Jeff again. Because that was a great use of my time."
"Myra."
"How many times have we had to haul him in? Six, seven? I'm losing count because I swear every time we check the messages there's another from the jailor saying good ol' Jeff's done pulled a runner," she jerked her hand through the air in an awe shucks move.
Reiss wiped her hands over her face, tugging upon the loose skin to emphasize her wrinkles, "What would you have me do, then?"
"Let him go," Myra said, "Or kill him."
"Kill the man for stealing bread?" Her mom crossed her arms and glared at her logic.
"Or break his legs. I don't know. He's gonna keep escaping, we're gonna keep taking him back, which is when they lengthen his sentence which causes him to decide to escape yet again," Myra closed her book and chucked it onto her pile. "I'm pretty sure I'll be chasing Jeff down until I'm as old as you and he's dust."
Reiss snorted out of her nose, "Well, if he's dust then it should be easier to catch him, right?"
"I...suppose that's true. You could keep him in a jar, hard to get out of that without hands," Myra's whining fell apart as exhaustion took over. All she wanted was to crumple into her bed and not wake until the rooster was boiled. Was that too much to ask? Struggling to rise, Myra's leaden shoes hit the floor as she began to slide to her room.
"Oh, Myra," her mother's summons made her stall, her arms hanging in the air, "your father's got a request for you."
"Father dad or King dad?"
Reiss rolled her eyes, "When has he ever asked you to do anything as King?"
Myra scratched her chin, "I think he told me to clean my room once."
"And considering the crater of a sty you live in I can see how well you listen to your sovereign's orders," her mom shook her head before getting to the meat. "Seems the Rutherford boy will be coming to Denerim and he wants you to keep an eye out for him."
The Rutherford boy? A few memories flashed through Myra's brain of a thirteen year old with shaking hands who clumsily reached for hers. Warm, pouty lips slipping and sliding past hers before landing back in place for her first kiss. Bright shining eyes that glittered like mead on a hot day.
"Gavin?" Myra tried to shake away the old memories, "What's he doing here?"
"Apparently he's going to be a squire."
"Why?" she pinched up her eyes, fully confused. Squiring involved standing around all day being ordered to do things and having drunk Knights shout at you. That soft spoken, skinny lad she met all those years ago was the furthest thing she could picture trapped in that boorish life.
"I don't know, Myra. You can ask him when he arrives with the caravan out of Redcliffe," Reiss sighed, already falling into her chair. It was a long walk up stairs to get to her bedroom. "Just...do it for your dad, okay?"
"Fine," Myra sighed as if it was a huge burden, but her curiosity was piqued. It'd been a few years since she last heard from Gavin. What'd he been up to since? Resuming her slow shamble to her room, Myra tried to hide the blush of young infatuation beneath the pile of freckles on her cheeks.
Before Myra vanished behind the door to her sanctuary, Reiss shouted, "And clean your damn room."
Myra tipped her head out and made a motion of bowing low, "Yes, my liege."
CHAPTER THREE
A Beautiful Princess
"My lady," a head tipped to her, but she didn't have time to properly wave or even give a little nod. Rosamund may have been short, but she was using the full length of her stride to not-quite run through the palace walls. Running from royalty implied a major problem certain to cause panic, practically but not-yet running meant she was very busy and to get out of her way before she barreled through someone. Hands behind her picked at the quiver, which easily tugged away, then tried to grab her bracers off.
"How late am I?" Rosamund asked, twisting her head behind to one her ladies. She raised a single black eyebrow to try and get the girl to cough out an answer, which she'd been dodging since Rosie heard the bells and ran clear across the meadow at full bore. Sweat clung to her forehead and drenched her back, very un-princesslike sweat. It'd probably shock people to learn that not only was the crowned princess of Ferelden prone to sweating out her dresses like no one's business she also, on occasion, passed gas and had rather thick and dark leg and arm hair. Her ability to charm woodland creatures to do her bidding was also taking time to emerge.
"It's not bad, yet," Tess insisted, trying to tug off the leathers Rosie had on while out in the field. They may not breathe all that well in the summer heat, but they worked through tall grass better than a skirt.
"Yet?" Rosamund gasped first in concern, then from her lady tugging the belt tighter to get it off. The scabbard at her hip fell to the floor. "Maker's breath," even as the fury undressing her picked up speed, Rosie bent down to pluck up her sword. She'd had it for years, designed by one of the greatest smiths in all of southern thedas. Gifted to her by her father from when she cleaned her entire room for a month straight. She was rarely far from it.
Hands plucked the scabbard out of her fingers, and Tess' pinched face pinched tighter. "Sorry, my Lady, but we'll keep it safe."
"We...?" Rosie began when a flock of women seemed to appear out of the woodwork to circle around her. They all locked bodies, shielding the princess as she was stripped of the last of the fighting leathers and thin linen shirt. No doubt to the others passing across the mighty staircase or from one room on the second level to the other it looked like a teeming anthill. Perhaps they caught a sliver of Rosie's pale skin slipping into a tan sleeve, or a girl cinching up the golden belt before letting the skirt covered in gold embroidery of rose bushes fluff out.
Tipping her head up, Rosie took in a deep breath while nimble fingers cinched up the laces on the bodice, trapping her well proportioned breasts behind a fluff of lace. It was modest for the future queen without being stuffy on a twenty something girl. Even still, Rosamund's bust size allowed a handful of her soft flesh to poke out of the top of the coverings. She was hard to strap down with anything other than a tight band double knotted and up to her neck.
"Are we done?" she asked, her hands still out at her sides as if afraid they'd begin adding more clothes to her.
"Wait a moment, my lady," one of her cousins said. Her mother made her take a few into Rosie's entourage, the ones that their fathers hoped would either find a nice noble man to marry, or fall into eternal servitude to the queen. Fingers dabbed a dash of pigment onto her lips -- red as her namesake. With a soft brush, others drew powder across her closed eyelids, green as the forest in shadow, to match her striking eyes.
When the pressure removed from her eyes, Rosamund risked taking a peek to find the multitude of women sliding back from her. She blinked a few more times, trying to sift any excess powder off and then gave a little bow. "How do I look?"
"Like a princess," Tess sighed.
"That doesn't really help me. I was hoping more for imposing diplomat, but..." in the distance Rosie heard the bells peal again. "What time is it?"
"Um..." the girls clutching to her training clothing and weapons all blinked and gulped at each other.
Oh Maker, it was even worse than she feared. Hitching up the skirts, Rosie revealed her pair of riding boots. Well, no time to change them out for slippers now. She jogged towards the stairs, Tess tight on her heels while the princess insisted yet again, "How long have they been waiting?"
"Not very, your highness."
"Give me an answer in numbers, please," Rosie was tired of people dancing around the subject already.
"Um," Tess swallowed ha
rd and spat out, "an hour...or more."
"An..." Rosamund's trained poise shattered apart. This was her first time let off the lead and she, she stupidly... She should have stayed here in the palace, prepared, read through the notes again. Made certain she was on top of it all, but no, her nerves got the better of her and she thought a bit of sword training would work them out. Then the time got away and--
"My lady," Tess interrupted, "it's all right. Royalty often keeps their lessers waiting. For instance, your father..."
Rosamund took a deep breath and stared hard at Tess. "I am not my father," slowly, her eyes trailed to the looming door behind which her first solo meeting with the heads of state for Denerim waited, "though I wish he was here right now." He'd have walked right in with horse muck clinging to his boots, made some charming joke about how there was a traffic jam on the streets, and everyone would love him for it.
Calm down, Rosie. You know this. She'd been reading reports about the state of Denerim's food storage, sewage, and road requirements for the past two weeks. Every night before bed in preparation for today she'd lower the light on her lantern and dig into refuse and unburned corpse numbers.
Lifting her chin up, Rosamund stared through the air as if she could command the room itself to bend to her will. With that burst of certainty in her step, she opened the door and walked in to find a group of five adults all sitting at the conference table. They looked bored, feet up on the table, a few waving stacks of books around without a care in the world. When their princess stepped into the room, all the shoes hit the ground. A few of the men moved to rise, but Rosie waved them off.
"Forgive the lateness of my arrival, I was..." in the middle of mastering a back kick, "delayed." She shuffled back towards the chair that sat at the head of the table, perfectly aligned in front of a red stained glass window. For months her father sat there while Rosie took a chair against the wall, watching and learning. Now it was her turn.
"Will your..." the Arlessa of the Alienage spoke up, her eyes trailing Rosamund as she sat in place, "the King be joining us?"
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