Lost Children Concept Contest
Phase One Entry
Phase One Entry
Name: Onora Morrison
Gender: Female
Myth: Cathleen Ni Houlihan, personification of Ireland and symbol of Irish patriotism
Link to a source on the mythbase: [X] [X]
Link to Fa'e quest thread: [X]
Appearance: Onora is (1) in no way remarkably beautiful and would instead be easily considered striking or almost handsome rather than pretty. In support of this, she is (2) fairly muscular. Lastly, (3) while Onora seems to predominantly resemble a human, her torso and limbs (to the elbow and knee), are largely marked by Celtic runes and knot work.
Powers:
Persuasion: Onora has the slight ability to magically persuade a person to her side of reasoning, whatever it may be. It should be noted that she is not able to sway a person from totally opposite ends of an issue's spectrum, but should an individual be leaning toward her way of thinking or 'on the fence,' so to speak, she may be able to affect their decision. It would, perhaps, be better to describe it as being capable of invigorating dormant ideals of an individual’s already present beliefs, rather than true persuasion. Nonetheless, coupled with a strong personality and a notable level of charisma, this power could easily be taken as a little dangerous - particularly because Onora is known to fight for her desire for some ‘greater good’ than for what might actually be considered fair or right. While she uses this power without any great labor, it is not always in effect.
Weapon Skill: Onora is, in some slight way, skilled with most weapons, though the ability by no means allows her to master a particular weapon without some dedication to learning it; for example, she cannot simply snatch up a katana and instantly be the epitome of Japanese swordsmanship personified.
Personality: To put it shortly, Onora is a strong minded and driven young woman. She has an unflagging sense of loyalty, though her faith lies in ideals and causes rather than in individuals themselves. While she may respect certain people for their own beliefs or actions, Onora seems to be acutely aware of the fact that people will eventually do what anyone can be expected to do: screw things up, be hypocrites, and utterly detestable at some point or another. Because of this (not that she is at all immune to the fallible quality of living) and the fact the most individuals have a rather limited life span, she would much rather put her hopes in an immortal, infallible ideal. Furthermore, she has come to be highly defensive of those ideals and beliefs she claims as her own – along with anyone who shares them with her. Onora is fiercely protective of ‘hers and her own,’ to the point of being a touch blind to her own ambitions and, occasionally, her own corruption. That said, Onora holds to a strict code of her personally defined ethics; unfortunately, her ethical code doesn’t translate to any particular moral standard and she could easily be viewed as immoral, extremist or morally ambivalent in many contemporary situations. She believes strongly in human sacrifice for the preservation of ideals and in protecting one’s own belief system. Onora’s life mantra could easily be something along the line of either, ‘The good of the many outweighs the good of the one,’ or ‘The ends justify the means.’ If she finds herself fixated on reaching a certain end, Onora doesn’t care how many objective or similar-minded individuals she must step over to reach it. Rather, she views it as a nobility of sorts: a necessary ordeal to reach a certain goal.
Luckily, Onora’s idealist sense of loyalty isn’t the sole defining quality of her personality. While she may be a bit (read: a lot) single minded, she is also intuitive and clever minded when it comes to strategy, if not at reading people. She knows what to say when it comes to coercing people to do things, with or without that power of persuasion, but she’s a piss poor shoulder to lean on in terms of friendship. Oh, she can converse as good as most people, but in terms of issues – real, human, personal issues – she has a difficult time relating due to the fact that she’s often so narrowed in on her own goals that her mind won’t let her stop to think honestly about a person’s issues, or register the fact that something that wouldn’t necessarily bother her could possibly be a problem for others. Onora is no nonsense and rather straightforward; furthermore, she is usually in some way truthful with what she says. She rarely tells straight out lies, but it’s not uncommon for her to leave important bits and pieces out of stories or explanations.
Onora’s sense of humor borders on dry sarcasm or deadpan wit, if anything. She enjoys watching and observing rather than engaging overly much in most conversation; that said, she's opinionated enough to the point that she’ll debate something she believes in for days on end if it catches her interest. Onora enjoys reading, but generally only for informational purposes rather than bodice ripper novels or epic works of fiction. Beyond poking around, wandering about, and practicing weaponry, Onora is an avid practitioner of embroidery and would honestly much rather sit down with am embroidery hoop and needle than read a book. She has a penchant for fine clothing, a weakness for expensive furniture, and an absolute failing for anything floral. She’s also rather fond of the autumnal colors and bright pastel pink, and sees absolutely no reason why that might be even remotely odd. Apparently the thought that most people who like reds and oranges don’t usually gravitate toward pastels.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, she has a particular dislike for extremely hot weather. She’s also rather averse to extremely, eye burningly bright examples of the color spectrum, television and most electrical devices (flashlights officially give her the creeps, and don’t even get her started on this whole concept of ‘remote control’ – it sounds damned dangerous, thank you very much). Onora has a distaste for insects, particularly the ones that bite. On a more human level, she spurns cowardice and selfishness in others, despite the fact that she harbors more than a bit of the each herself.
How does the characters personality, appearance and powers and your character relate back to your chosen mythos?: In what little of the canonical mythbase which can be found surrounding Cathleen Ni Houlihan, she is always depicted as a striking and pragmatic young woman. Generally speaking, she is also described as being either remarkably beautiful or in the form of a withered old woman, in turns. In order to reconcile both these canonical images, I chose to draw back from the outward beauty of the vivacious woman in the mythos and instead gave her a charismatic personality and a force of will that could easily be recognized as admirable, even coming from behind a less-than-stunning face or from a direction of moral ambiguity. In the original mythos, Cathleen is a character of admirable merit – one that fights for her country and its people the only way she can: which is to inspire those men she leads in to battle. She visits men in their homes and calls them to her banner of war in the name of patriotism, and while these men may die, it’s clear they hold her respect for doing so. Because of this, Cathleen’s modern day reincarnation in Onora is just as strong willed, just as capable of breathing new life into ideals which people already hold, and just as eager to follow through in protecting her particular code of ethics – unfortunately, as in Irish history where often senseless and extremist bloodshed was heralded as patriotism, Onora’s code of ethics does not necessarily translate into a cotemporary ideal of morality. Just as in the mythos and history, Onora in the present is strongly defensive of herself and her own to the point of becoming rather insensitive to the well being of others.
History: Past Life - Onora’s past life history has an abrupt end and a rather vague beginning. There was no sudden embodiment of this patriotic ideal which she represents over the course of a single day to day; there was no springing forth fully formed from a father figure’s forehead. Rather, Cathleen came together in bits and in pieces as the people of her homeland realized that they were, indeed, a nation of sorts – perhaps not that they were all the same or believed in all the same deities or even lived in the same conditions, but acknowledged that they were in some way bound together by their land, if not by their nature itself.
That said, Cathleen plays a part in almost any great battle of Ireland’s history. As a personification of the island’s patriotism, she had a hand in the notably violent history of the country – from the Roman invasion, to the Viking raids and England’s multiple attempts at conquest. Cathleen appeared as an old woman at houses where men lived whenever the threat of armed conflict arose. She evoked the patriotism of young men, calling them to her banner and leading them into battle. Her vitality was restored by any man who agreed to follow her. When any man who fought fore Ireland fell on the battle field, Cathleen Ni Houlihan would drink his blood which in turn gave the fallen warrior the title of a hero and martyr for his country. The act of drinking the fallen man’s blood was considered an act of honor, not one of cannibalism.
In the end, it would be the desire of a Dutchman turned English king that slew her, on whose behalf a man by the name of Godert de Ginkell led an army which beheaded the last leading man of Ireland at the Battle of Aughrim, successfully killing the last Jacobite force resisting the invasion and with it Cathleen.
With the forces of Britain sweeping from one coast of the island to the other, Cathleen’s banner for the rights and patriotism of Ireland was struck – though the over riding willpower to defend her countrymen and her ideals, coupled with the failure, spurred her to be reborn in the hope that she might somehow redeem herself for her past failures.
Present Life - Onora was discovered as a squalling infant in the wreckage of a long ago burned out gypsy wagon. It was, probably, no coincidence that Morris knew of the place and happened to be wandering by at the time of her manifestation. Taken in by the once-noble, Onora was raised in the house of her guardian’s brother-in-law. Considering the political situation of certain neighboring countries at the time, Onora grew up in a relatively stable environment as her homeland managed to remove itself (or blatantly ignore) the possibility of some sort of conflict with the neighboring kingdom. She grew close to her uncles but had a tendency to get along poorly with other children. Much to Morris’ distaste, Onora also came to respect her guardian’s brother-in-law and the title he held in their homeland.
As a child, Onora picked up a cleverness with weapons and was distressingly drawn toward hunting and riding, despite clear cut interests in womanly pursuits such as long stints of embroidery (and may it be noted that no boy should ever underestimate the abilities of a small girl with a sewing needle, for embroidery needles are as sharp as little girl’s sense of justice and fair poorly when shoved into forearms of certain ill mannered young boys).
Unfortunately, a mundane life is one Onora was apparently not fit to have. The Black Queen of the neighboring country, a witch, had come to realize that the land on her borders was harboring a being of intriguing power and supernatural origin. Naturally, as diabolical evil queens are prone to doing – it’s one of those rules, you know, like if you have a hamster as a child it definitely, always, absolutely must somehow die a horrible and mentally scarring death -, the ruler in question set out to bring Onora to her capitol for observation and the like. Before the queen’s intentions could be realized however, certain individuals from previously unknown alternate worlds came to visit and pulled both Onora and her guardian to the relative ‘safety’ of this new domain called Gaia.
Guardian: Onora’s guardian is a young man by the name of Morris Alrimson, the fourth son of the once esteemed Lord Alrim Cronwill. Unfortunately, Morris was stripped of his title at the age of thirteen along with his brothers when their father died suddenly and Morris’ younger sister was hastily married off to a neighboring lord – who proceeded to quickly take the Cronwill land from Morris’ clever but inexperienced older brother, successfully assimilating the now untitled Cronwills into his own house and doubling his hold of land.
At the best of times, Morris is a rather quiet man, mostly because he doesn’t typically have much of an opinion on anything – unfortunately, he has an exceedingly short temper which tends to result in either contrived brooding or shouting matches. He is without occupation and lives in the house of his younger sister and her husband. Morris is a touch self-centered and falls in and out of affection for people quickly, though should anyone actually gain his respect, they hold it forever – respect and friendship, however, are two very different points.
World: Rostik is a young planet of, culturally, unknown size. There are five known continents, two known oceans, and multiple smaller bodies of water. The landscape of the world varies from heavily forested area, plains, and one large desert in the far south. The known continents of the world are set somewhat closer to the north pole of the planet and do not, according to the map, center on an equator. Rather, the equator of Rostik runs far closer to the border of Roruel and Ithin.
Humans are the predominant intelligent race of the planet, though it's said that there are clusters of more magically inclined humanoid beings in unknown areas. There is a strong belief of faeries and much of the land is saturated by magic and magic practitioners. Rostik is a land in which much can happen - of wishing fish and peddlers with enchanted mirrors, gypsies with secrets and old magic that no one can remember how to work any longer.
The two most important kingdoms of Onora’s personal world are Roruel and Laerke. Onora grew up in Roruel, an extremely rural kingdom, ruled by a king who sits in his castle at the capitol. The rest of the sprawling landscape - for Roruel is the largest kingdom of Rostik - has been divided into provinces handled by titled lords. There are few paved roads or large cities on Roruel and it is generally considered fairly behind from a technological standpoint. It runs off almost a tribe-like scenario despite all the lords paying allegiance to the king.
There are three large mountain chains in the kingdom and a number of rivers of varying sizes. Furthermore, the Ruevan Sea and Ailith Sea both sit on the Eastern border. Both seas open out into the Tienan Ocean. The landscape is fairly wooden around the northern borders, though it deteriorates into grasslands near the center. At the southern border it becomes long, lonely plains and a fairly large desert which spans a large width of the southern bit of the kingdom before hitting the border between Roruel and Ithin. There is a trade road that runs along the perimeter of the desert, but few traders actually choose to travel through the wasteland as there are only a few known sources of water.
The people of Roruel themselves feel they have deep roots and traditions and while they don't necessarily consider themselves a magically heavy society, many of their traditions are rooted in a belief of the spiritual and magical aspects of their world. Witches and wizards of low and average power are fairly common in the world and most of the lords have at least one healer-witch in their employ. Culturally, the people of Roruel rely more heavily on hunting and farming than they do trade. The people of Roruel believe in many different gods and goddesses, though most people will choose to celebrate one or the other more heavily than the others depending on their status in life. For example, a lord might worship Camlry, the God of power and good fortune, while a healer-witch may offer trinkets on the altar of The Lady Maladine, Goddess of good health and family. A large part of the Roruelian culture also hinges on who holds the title of Birdmaster.
And on that particular note, a Birdmaster is a person who communicates with a chosen flock or flocks of birds. He uses the birds both as a form of communication between the different provinces of Roruel but also as a means to keep an eye on his own borders of the borders of the kingdom itself. There is a single Birdmaster at any given time in the kingdom of Roruel. The Birdmaster is always a lord and has never been a king. In some way, the Birdmaster is a check and balance for the rulership of the king and is generally considered only a step below the king himself in terms of affluence. He is the most powerful of the lords and generally is considered to have the weight of two seats in councils between lordships.
On the other hand, Laerke has a totalitarian dictatorship-type government, though quite recently it was ruled by a monarchy somewhat similar to that of Lovise. The current leader is the woman named Ahrlihide, known as The Black Queen. She closed off the borders of Laerke (save for the westernmost province who, separated from the main kingdom by a section of the country Roruel, has been left remarkably unattended to) upon gaining the throne and has since taken the country into a strict handhold. As such, not much is known about the current state of the kingdom by its neighbors. The Black Queen is a powerful witch and magic, particularly the chaotic arts, runs rampant in Laerke.
Geographically, Laerke has multiple smaller rivers and a large mountain chain, the Nihil Moutains, on the western edge of the kingdom that separates it from Roruel. The borders are heavily wooded, though the center of the kingdom is predominantly grasslands. The Malene Bay sits to the Southeast edge of the kingdom.
It should be noted that Rostik and most of its kingdoms follow a time measurement and calendar system different from the Gaian standard, as the planet turns on a different orbit than Gaia does. Also, most of the kingdoms run off separate monetary systems save for Laerke and Lovise which share one.
Writing Samples:
Writing Prompt
Prompt #3: One dark and stormy night a figure wrapped in a dark cloak approaches you. It is Airi, who has traveled from Gaia to find your Fa'e and take it back with her to Fa'e HQ. What are your Fae's reaction to this and do they want to go with her? Also, what does the Guardian think about it, as he/she will now have to abandon their world to come with the Fa'e child? Feel free to NPC Airi or just describe interactions after Airi has left you two alone.
- Onora’s uncle and Morris’ eldest brother, who should have been a lord and a master of birds, instead lay dead in the warm earth of a lonely field which sat on the very fringe of the Lord Talmrin’s estate.
He had had been burned, his ashes buried in the cap of a mound of earth which now was one hump of many in the field, speckled with the growth of white flowers that grew low to the earth and grass whose tips were yellowed from the sun. He had been mourned by three brothers and a younger, youngest, sister, but not by his sister’s husband the Lord Talmrin whom none had expected to.
Onora had never known him.
She had seen his mound only twice in her lifetime, neither time in the company of her father; once, with her aunt who had dug up the earth and buried a small charm of the Lady Maladine, the goddess’ veil covering much of her face on the silver disk. Her aunt had cleaned the stone which bore her uncle’s name, Cordul Alrimson. Her aunt smiled sadly at the time, saying “I had wanted him buried a Cronwill.” The second time Onora visited the mound it was with her uncle Lewill who had said nothing at all. She had not yet been eight the first time and just ten the second, and both times when she’d returned to Talmrin House her father had been absent only to return hours later with the cuffs of his trousers wet from the river and his damp forearms glistening, empty handed.
It was on her eleventh birthday that Morris took her to the river. He first rolled up the cuffs of his trousers, peeling off his stockings and his shoes to deposit them on the grassy bank. He then turned and bent to Onora, taking the pin from her hair and using it to knot her skirt above the knee, bearing to the sun the strange twisted markings that capped both her knees.
“So it won’t get wet,” he explained even as the left leg of his pants slipped down over his knee. He had to take a moment to roll it up again, features setting into a somber expression.
Onora looked down the bank to the slow gurgle of the river. It was the end of summer and she could feel the sun on the back of her head and suspected that if it wasn’t for the sheet of hair at the nape of her neck, she would soon be sunburned. She eyed the river, knowing full well that it would be cool and sharp on her legs in the haze of flower smell and the heat. “What’re we doing here, Em?” Onora asked, looking to Morris expectantly.
He straightened, looking at her fondly for a moment. There was a darkness, a tightness, about his face that she had difficulty pinning down for long, much less discerning its meaning. “To catch wishing fish,” he explained, cracking a smile before turning to wade into the water.
“There aren’t any wishing fish here,” she protested but followed after a moment anyway, submerging herself to the knee in water. The river rocks, worn smooth by the water, pressed into the soles of her feet and caught bits and pieces of the sun which they reflected back through the water. She let her fingertips dip into the river, feeling it move under her nails. “Wishing fish are only in the sea, Em.”
Morris snorted, letting his hands sink up to the wrist into the cool water. “Says you, little one. You’re rather pessimistic, aren’t you?”
“Uncle Stephan says I’m realistic,” Onora remarked honestly, shrugging both her thin shoulders. Morris laughed loud and the dark wrinkles at the corners of his eyes eased slightly.
“Well then, you tell your uncle that he can stuff it because everyone knows there are wishing fish in rivers too. Who’s to say one of those little minnows isn’t one?” He motioned to the flashing bodies of the little river fish, flicking up and down and back again, skittering out of the shadows his and Onora’s bodies cast against the water.
“Wishing fish talk,” Onora murmured, but nonetheless humored Morris when he jerked his head in a clear indication that she was to come closer to him.
“Maybe they’re shy,” he said as he took her hands in his, showed her how to put them down into the water and then stay still – so very, very still – so the fish began to ripple around their legs and between their fingers.
Morris clapped her hands together, cupping them around one of the minnows. Onora shrieked and nearly loosed her fingers, but he kept his hands close over her knuckles. “Hold it in the water,” Morris instructed patiently, only then releasing her cupped hands. “I brought a bowl. Happy birthday.”
It was four summers past when one of Lord Talmrin’s flocks killed the robin, striking it from the courtyard’s high wall and dashing it against the paving stones below. It had been a fine little bird with an exceptionally bright red breast and clever little eyes. It was rare for any bird to linger on the wall, so when it had sat there for a prolonged time Onora had finally drawn up still where she stood at the right side of the sand pit, lowering the point of the short blunt sword in order to turn her attention to the bird.
Her uncle, tall and gangly in the way her father never had been, lowered his own buckler and knife in a similar fashion and followed the line of her gaze. “Talmrin’s not started with robins, has he?” Stephan asked, squinting.
Onora shook her head, sheathing the sword and pulling the gloves from her fingers. She moved across the pit to stand beside Stephan, keeping an eye on the robin. “No; Uncle Alek’s just got the ravens, blackbirds and crows.” Just barely the ravens, though; even Onora could see the way Lord Alek Talmrin struggled to keep them under his hold – for a blackbird followed blindly so long as they were fed and a crow would pledge his loyalty for a piece of silver, but a raven had to be won in ways that Talmrin only half understood. Perhaps if Cordul Alrimson had lived longer Lord Talmrin might have mastered the ravens in the same way he reined in both the blackbirds and the crows.
Onora frowned. “I wonder where it came from.”
The clack of beaks and the beat of wings descended on the courtyard in a torrent as a small entourage of crows launched from the eaves of the roof. The robin leapt from the wall, short wings spreading for flight, but the crows caught it mid-air and took it to ground with the efficiency of any hunting bird. Onora and Stephan both started, watching with mute fascination as the crows tore feathers from the smaller bird’s wings and pecked it to death. The crows cawed and skittered, finally alighting to the top of the courtyard wall where they shuffled against one another and ruffled their crowns indignantly, gossiping over the intruder’s death.
In their wake they left a young boy whose fair hair had been torn from his scalp in places, his hands and arms and face pecked by the birds. His bleeding eye sockets leered across the length of the courtyard at Onora, demanding something she couldn’t give. From where she stood, Onora spied the remnants of the spy’s enchanted cap – a construct of both magic and nature, picked apart to its base elements by the crows, leaving behind bird feathers and bone.
Stephan took her roughly by the shoulder, ripping the sheathed sword from her loose fingers. He pushed her to the open door leading back from the courtyard into Talmrin House. “Go find your father,” he ordered. Onora went without question – she had no desire to argue in order to examine more closely the body of a dead boy who had been no older than herself -, the look of the empty eyes turning a place in her stomach which held neither pity or sadness. She could taste the fear and apprehension of things to come in her mouth though as it rose like a bile from the pit of her.
Two days later a peddler with a beard the length of Onora’s forearms came to stay in the lord’s stable, for his horse had come up lame and there was little that the man could do. Talmrin House reveled in the man’s visit, cleaning out half his stock and paying him twice over for fortune telling and stories from Laerke and Lovise which the peddler claimed to have seen himself. Onora visited him once in the cold afternoon, taking refuge near the fire basin the peddler had been given to keep warm by. She idled briefly near his wagon to peer over the edge where his wares had been left uncovered in the warmth of the barn. Mirrors and fine pieces of silk, handkerchiefs embroidered with little blue birds and bits of lace from some far away place. There were carvings of wooden animals, the stones in their eye sockets glittering at her in the dim light.
Shivering, Onora turned to the haystack where the peddler had struck his pallet. She caught him watching her with an easy and companionable smile on his face. “You swindle people out of money, Mr. Peddler,” she told him as she wandered to his side and sat in the hay, knees pulled up like a gangly foal’s. She offered her palms out to him as she spoke and he took them in his ruddy, leather skinned hands. His calloused thumb traced the lines of the upturned skin. “How much to tell my fortune?”
“Two trag,” the peddler said, stroking his beard and smoothing his moustache absentmindedly in turn. “I tell people what they want to hear; for that, two trag is a small price to pay.”
After a moment, Onora nodded and her features fixed into a severe expression. “What do you see?” she asked, looking straight up at the old man.
It took him a moment. When he looked up at her, he smiled sadly and folded her palms together, placing them gently into the straw which they both sat on. “A storm,” he said, patting her hand briefly. “A dead man’s grave and a woman’s ambition.” He looked at her earnestly and for a moment Onora felt compelled to cover her face or close her eyes. Instead she folded her hands between her chest and her knees. “You’re not normal,” he said at length. “You’re not your father’s daughter, are you?”
Onora watched him for a long moment and then thanked him, pressing the two copper coins into his spider-webbed palms before retreating from the barn.
Morris had never liked the long, crashing overtures of a thunder storm. Onora had seen him in the rain of the summer once, when the sky was wide and bright despite the rain, playing in the yard with two of the large mastiffs. He’d come inside covered in mud, his hair slick from the rain and hands drenched in the saliva of both drooling dogs; he’d come in laughing, picking her off the ground and swinging her around, pressing a kiss on her forehead before chasing her off so he could take a bath. It was not the rain her father was afraid of, not the summer rain and perhaps not even the angry hum of approaching thunder, but there was something in the sheeting rain of winter gales, frigid and mind-numbing, that put Morris Cronwill’s teeth on edge.
It had been the past autumn that the peddler had been in Lord Talmrin’s barn. Onora recalled his beard, but not his face or his smile; she remembered the wagon but not the horse. She remembered his hands with their blunt fingers and cracked nails, and all of the words he had told her.
Two trag, he’d said. A small price to pay.
Onora thought of the copper coins as she warmed her hands by the hearth, waiting out of snarling winter storm. Behind the drapes, lightning illuminated the glass and the thunder shook something deep in her chest. Rain fell down into the chimney and the fire sputtered and hissed under the overbearing smell of ozone. Onora shivered and pulled the blanket, small flowers embroidered weakly into the corners from when she was twelve, up to her chin. She tucked the corners behind her shoulders, curled into the wide back of the armchair.
Onora thought of the two coins when Morris jimmied the door and burst inside the room between two crashes of thunder. He was drenched to the bone, wild-eyed, and had one of the large hunting dogs with him. The dog stayed at his heels despite the promise of warmth by the fire. Onora looked sharply over her shoulder at them both, taking in the heaving shoulders of her father and the way the dog wanted to bark or growl.
“Your uncle’s birds,” Morris said, voice biting through even the growl of the thunder. “They’ve seen something coming. A legion at the forest’s edge.” He faltered, keeping his hands away from the mastiff’s head for the dog seemed on edge and prone to n**. “Talmrin says the Black Queen has sent them for someone marked by a god.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy and full of the darkness the storm had carried in. Onora peeled the blanket from her shoulders and nudged the edge of her skirt from her knees, fingering the dark birthmarks that spiraled up and beneath the fold of her skirt. She smoothed the fabric back down, looked to Morris. “We need to go,” she said, her father’s breath rattling in the air between them. “We need to go to your brother.”
“Stephan and Lewill can’t –“
“Cordul,” Onora snapped, throwing the blanket aside and abandoning the hearth. She gathered up the skirt of her nightdress and hurried to the wardrobe, throwing a cloak around her shoulders. It took a moment longer to find the stiff shoes she’d never worn and by the time she’d managed to pull them onto her bare feet, Morris had found his ground. His face was twisted painfully when she looked to him again.
Onora grit her teeth stubbornly. “We can’t let them come here, Em,” she snapped. “If they’re coming, it can’t be through Uncle Talmrin’s entire household.” Sensibility, even with him at twenty-six and her at fifteen, had always been Onora’s hand of cards. Onora moved to her dressing table and upended a bottle of perfume into a vase of flowers. She took the bowl of water from the same table, pouring it and the river minnow swimming in the clear water into the emptied bottle. She capped it off with a cork and put it carefully into the pocket of her cloak.
Morris looked away, bowed his head. For a time which felt far longer than Onora suspected it actually was, the man looked toward the fire and the way it twisted and hissed away from the rain that came down the floo. Finally, he glanced back, motioned, and fled the room. The hunting dog tailed after him as Onora moved to take the short sword, sheathed and ready, from where it hung by her door before following.
The mastiff accompanied them all the way to the courtyard’s gate at which point no calling or whistling or pats at the knee from Morris or Onora could get him to leave the grounds. Morris’ curses were lost in the gale and the two continued through the dark unguarded, the rain soaking quickly through clothes to skin. The lantern light bobbed and shivered with Morris’ shaking fingers holding it before them, his other hand holding fiercely onto Onora’s as they led one another down the stony path to the burying field. Behind them, the howls of the wood tangled with that of the wind.
The hair on Onora’s forearms stood on end, not entirely due to the rain and the whipping wind.
The path underfoot crumbled and degenerated in the face of the wilds of the encroaching field and soon they found themselves running through the slick knee high grass, the rain soaked blades biting into the bared flesh of Onora’s shins as they bolted on. The wind snarled, tangling on the tails of her cloak. Onora clasped Morris’ hand tighter, keeping stride easily despite the tug of the rain and wind for the man ran with a hesitation in his step despite whatever might be hounding their footsteps in a way no dog every had.
They found the mound in the dark between illuminating cracks of lightning. The flash of light made every hollow in one another’s face look gaunt and skeletal, casting the burying ground into a ghostly grey save for the figure that awaited them at Cordul Alrimson’s grave, who stood out black and dangerous on the haunted canvas of weathered grass and lumps of gravestones.
Morris hauled backward a step ahead of Onora, nearly pulling her shoulder from its socket as she was whipped back, staggering around into the thick of his chest. Onora had time to cough once before Morris ripped the sheathed sword from her hand and drew it on the cloaked stranger, pulling Onora to his chest. She just managed to avoid smashing the perfume bottle between them.
“Who the hell are you?” Morris growled. Onora struggled to turn in the grip of his arm, lurching around. At any other hour, she might have resorted to kicking the man in the shins in order to be released, but this – this was different.
The stranger lifted their arms in supplication, stooping under the howl of the weather. It seemed to take an eternity for them to pull down the hood of their cloak. A young woman – or girl, it was difficult for Onora to tell with the unsteady lightning flashes; Onora had the feeling it would be difficult for her to tell in the clearest light -, soaked to the bone but apparently paying no mind to the cold. Onora could see the stranger’s hands shaking under her cloak, but looked there only briefly before peering to her face.
Morris seemed to take none of this into account and proceeded to shake Onora’s sword at the woman. “I said,” he snarled, the words rattling up from his chest, catching in the air between them and blown far across the dying field. “Who the hell are you?”
The young woman smoothed the front of her cloak quietly, looking briefly over both their shoulders back the way Morris and Onora had come. “There’s little time to explain,” she said, looking to the younger of the two rather than Morris who, of both, had demanded the most of her.
“You don’t belong here,” Onora said suddenly, the hackles on the back of her neck standing on end. She could smell the legion in the wood, smell their pungent breathing carried by the storm. “You’re not normal.”
The woman smiled faintly. “I’m not sure you belong here either,” she said. “—Come now, I’ve arrived at an inhospitable time and you must make a decision quickly before it’s made for you.” She motioned them closer and for once in his life, ‘Oh, thank you Em,’ Onora thought, Morris followed the direction. He kept the sword up though, but clearly preferred to deal with this young girl than any creature the Black Queen of Laerke had seen fit to send.
“My name is Airi,” the stranger explained quickly, pulling her hood back up against the rain now that she had established herself as being at least less of a threat than the creatures which dwelled under the cover of the wood. The hood threw a slant of shadow across her features, leaving her eyes and the bridge of her nose veiled in the dark. The movement of her mouth caught the scant and intermittent light of the storm as the rain pounded down on their shoulders. “You,” she said, looking to Onora and taking her in with a wistful glance. “Are…- I brought you here on accident. It wasn’t supposed to be this way; you were lost in your making and you must be brought back before chaos comes to your home.”
Morris motioned roughly over his own shoulder, clutching Onora still against his chest – smothering his daughter’s protests. “This isn’t chaos?” he demanded.
Airi turned to look at him, the gale of the storm sluicing down and cutting their shapes into the night via an outline of rain and mist. “No,” she told him, quite serious.
Morris silenced himself and looked away, his eyes drawn to the foot of the burying mound where they stood.
“Where are you going to take me?” Onora asked suddenly, managing to turn just enough and pitch her voice to be heard. She felt Morris’ grip tighten around her like a vice.
“Gaia,” Airi said, edging closer to them. “And I’m taking both of you – if you’re willing.”
Morris looked up quickly. Onora felt his chest heave silently behind her shoulders, the pelting rain soaking both their faces. She felt heavy, heavy with her cloak and nightdress, heavy with the weight of this decision. She could almost feel Morris taking it in, processing it at her back. She followed the way his head twitched to the side and his eyes trailed first to the mound of dirt and grass and dead flowers which they stood so close to, and then back to the house of Lord Talmrin himself. Onora could spy the dark shapes of birds in the window sills, silhouetted like the cut outs of a lamp hood.
“We’re going with you,” Onora said stubbornly, making up her mind for him.
Morris looked quickly down at her. She could feel the weight of his eyes at the crown of her head. “We can’t just—“
“We can’t bring them here, Em.” Onora said firmly, reaching selfishly into the pocket of her cloak and drawing up the glass bottle. She uncapped it and thrust it into his hands. “Make a wish. Make it count.”
Morris released her shoulders as he took the bottle, looking to Airi and then back to Onora. The fish skirted and twisted in the bottle as rain fell over the lip of the bottle and disturbed the already jostled water inside. “I wish,” he said slowly, speaking as clearly as he could to the bottle. He gripped Onora again, wrapping his arm around her clumsily, still holding the sword. “I wish we were where Onora was meant to be.”
The river minnow tossed in the bottle. The roll of thunder overhead cut itself off with the sudden snap of no noise at all.
