about Name: Shalvesta Race: Fire Earthling Gender: Female Class: Swordsman Future Class: Sentinel Significant Other: None Children: None Description: Shal is a petite woman with dark mahogany skin over a slim and catlike musculature. Her hair is long and clay-red, half dreaded and half straightened, falling to her shoulder blades. Kind, pink-red eyes stare out past thick black lashes, bordered by a dust of golden paint. The barest of rouges is painted on her lips in a dark-red, though her lips are tattood with a stripe of gold. Her septum is pierced with a bronze ring. She holds herself with something like demure grace, her posture usually drawn in and small as if she is used to taking up no room at all.
Orange, rocky crystals pepper her neck and shoulders and down along her shoulder blades.
Accessories: On her hands are clawed golden chains and finger clasps.
RP Color:FF9900
personality 3 Base Traits: ----->Kind: generous, good As a prentice, Shalvesta was the sort to be kind to those she encounters, the sort to smile and respect those she met. Now, while still kind at heart, she is less trusting of those she meets, and more restrained in her behavior. She holds a soft spot for those in need, but keeps to her own when possible. ----->Solitary: In the years that have passed since the Oban invasion, Shalvesta has kept to herself when possible, traveling throughout Jauhar and Oba finding odd jobs. She sometimes misses company, but often prefers her solitude and only seeks out others on rare occasions. That isn't to say that she doesn't enjoy people, she really does, but her lifestyle leaves her in the company of those she doesn't really get along with. ----->Reticent: secretive, quiet As a youngling Shalvesta was always trusting and loving to those she met, but the experiences she's had since have closed her off. She is less likely to open up and trust those she meets. A friendly personality has been squashed and instead rendered her quiet and more likely to mind her own business, and this has only strengthened over time. ----->Unstable: While her experience was stressful in and of itself, her inability to express her feelings on her abuse as a prentice bubbled up into an uncontrollable rage problem. Thoughts of her husband reduce her to physical fury, bordering on psychotic. Having to be restrained for so long has led to her being unable to process her emotions properly, and given her sword skills, her fighting often provides a welcome outlet.
Personality: As a young woman, Shalvesta was kind but quiet, and always did what she could to aid those aroundn her. That being said, she was secretive and didnt trust easily. What used to be a deep trust in the divinity of her race, and trust in higher ranked Obans, has become a cynicism and distrust of men and elders.
Her goal in life is to find a place she can live and be happy, but until she faces her family, and her in laws, she feels she can't find a safe haven in Oba. This being said, the concept of moving beyond Jauhar is improbable to her, and her love of her country means she spends her years moving from place to place. Since the Oban invasion, she had maintained a distance from nobility, and allowed her family to believe she was lost in the battle, and has no desire to fix this assumption.
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scarlett arbuckle Vice Captain
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Posted: Thu Jun 17, 2021 2:27 pm
Life Before Tendaji The daughter of a somewhat wealthy merchant living in Orrod, Shalvesta grew up with the expectation that she would join her family of storage workers and merchants. Her father, however, wishing for more for his daughter enticed a priest into examining his daughter, and seeing her somewhat demure and nurturing nature the priest was convinced to exaggerate her positive traits to the lesser nobility. Claiming her to be a paragon of the goddess Hatald, the priest's compliments attracted the attention of a religious family of nobles who asked Shal's father for her hand, engaging her to their young heir Mash'al.
The engagement came as a shock to the young girl, but she tried to stay optimistic and eventually deferred to her parents' judgement. She and her mother (as caretaker of her 'virtue') were sent to live with her new fiance - and in living with him Shal came to realize just how unlucky she truly was. Her fiance was incredibly controlling and emotionally abusive despite being the same age as her, and any hopes of friendship with her new partner was dashed. As time passed, it became clear that her virtues had been exaggerated - but Mash'als family found it would be shameful to break the engagement. After all, the family had overlooked many other candidates and chosen a commoner instead - possibly dashing Mash'als future marriage prospects. So it was Shal was stuck in the family, even while she was personally blamed by the members of his family for luring him away from better matches.
Years passed and Shalvesta grew from a girl to a young woman. Originally the intention was for her to wait until she was old enough to bare children before she married, but the war in Tendaji ushered plans along. Called to war, her fiance had a sword fashioned for battle, and the two were married the day before his departure.
News came back weeks later of the Oban victory, but Shalvesta's husband was declared dead, his body missing, but his sword found abandoned on the battlefield.
This is what spurred Shalvesta to leave Oba and travel to Tendaji - her years of abuse have convinced her that her attacker will appear the moment she lowers her guard.
Prentice In the dead of night, when her 'family' slept, Shalvesta crept from her noble estate (which she should rightfully have inherited with her husband's death) and fled on one of her father's supply shipments to Jauhar, where she made herself as comfortable as she could in the Oban camp. Rubbing elbows with people her age for the first time in years unmonitored, Shalvesta was demure and quiet, but was highly influenced by the women she met there. Invited to a gathering of nobles just weeks after her arrival, Shalvesta suffered through the party with Ichil at her side, eventually retreating to a nearby gathering of soldiers for the evening.
As word got around of Shalvesta's presence at camp, Naevius extended an invitation to talk privately in her tent. Stunned by the presence of a true lady, Shalvesta eventually came around to the idea of becoming friends with the girl.
Soon, Shalvesta realized that she couldn't head out on her own into the jungle to search for Mash'al, not without protection, and after pulling some favors using her father's supplies as payment, she was given a sword master - Faris - who initially was hard on her, but eventually wept her under his wing. Picking up on swordsmanship took a lot of doing, but eventually, as the battle neared, Shalvesta was brave enough and confident enough to consider joining the battle.
Enemies had been captured, kept in a pen at the Oban camp (foolish, she'd thought, keeping them in plain sight) - somehow, they escaped, and the girl was briefly captured by a large savage, forced to lead them to a supply tent where other hostages were kept. Ashamed of her failure, the swordsman soon learned that Naevius and Ichil had also been kidnapped in the escape - and knowing she'd been so close, and yet unable to protect them, lit a fire in her that urged her towards battle. She would have to grow up sooner or later. This was Shalvesta's first experience with her rage.
Then there was a sighting of Mash'al. Accused of being a spy and traitor, gathering intel for the enemy on the Oban camp, Shalvesta was pressured into capturing him. Laying in wait, Shalvesta saw a figure - a figure with her husband's insignia on his armor. She was overcome by fury, and in her rage she came close to murdering the man in cold blood - but the only thing that stopped her was that the man was NOT her husband, but rather an Oban who had been given his armor in order to get close to the camp. He was a spy, but not Mash'al - and she didn't know if she was relieved at her rage subsiding, or horribly disappointed that she hadn't had the change to kill Mash'al herself. Up until now, Shalvesta merely thought she was looking for him, all this time, so she wouldn't be surprised - but now she realized her goal was to kill him, to rid her life, once and for all, of his existence.
Now she knew he was out there - either dead in some Alkidike pit, his armor stolen; or living among the enemy.
Swordsman The battle ended in failure. Although she'd attempted to attack the enemy beasts, Shalvesta had been knocked aside like a fly, and the Obans lost their battle. While Naevius' father became the new king, Shalvesta was mutinously ashamed of the new tone the Oban royalty had taken - and the show of weakness from her strong people embarrassed her. And yet, despite this, the realization that peace had come terrified her. Under duress, she could travel about freely - but now that peace was coming, she would be pressured back home, husband or not. Would she be forced to marry her brother-in-law? He wasn't a cruel man, not like Mash'al had been, but the thought still mortified her.
Unable to consider life back in Oba, for now, she instead decided to travel north through Tendaji - maybe, there, she would find news of Mash'al, or be able to escape the pressure of Oban politics.
The original idea was to find Mash'al and be taken in by him again, only to be disappointed and leave him with a knife in his back (literally) in the middle of the night. This plot is on hold for now, as Mash'al's player is on hiatus.
Posted: Thu Jun 17, 2021 2:29 pm
Growth Reqs
Stage 3 - Stage 4
☑ 2 Month's Time
☐ 0/75 RP Points === ☑ - 5 pts
☐ Completed Growth Solo - 500 words
RP Growth Points
|| 300 word solo = 1 point || 10 post RP = 5 points || 7 posts in group event = 5 points
Babak: A wealthy merchant. He wanted the best for his daughter - however he believed that rather than love or support, his daughter needed wealth and a name in order to be cared for. He paid off a priest to claim his daughter was a paragon of the gods, thus attracting the attention of Lord Mash'al. After his daughter's engagement he kept up the occassional social visit. His opinion on Shalvesta's treatment is to close his eyes and turn away and pretend it isn't happening. The happy, independent and intelligent child he knew slowly died and disappeared, but letting himself realize he was the one to blame for this change was too much - and instead he likes to pretend she is selfishly sullen at being married off to a man not of her tastes.
With his daughter finally married, even if her lord husband was thought dead, Shalvesta's father still feels that he did right by his daughter and that she has a better life ahead of her now, with a noble name. What guilt he harbored from his daughter's abuse was 'lifted' when she wrote home asking him to gift supplies of weapons and food to the training division of the Oban invasion force.
Shirin: A demure and quiet woman, she went with Shalvesta to live with Mash'al. She often saw the abuse her daughter suffered from Mash'al and his family, and while it pained her she deferred to her husband's wishes and instead tried to offer what consolation she could. By the time Shalvesta was 14, however, her mother went back home to her husband, writing letters to Shalvesta but hardly ever seeing her, unable to stomach knowing what her daughter was going through. Instead she likes to pretend Shal doesn't exist, or at least limit contact to a bare minimum.
Faris: A gruff old soldier, Faris was pressured to train Shalvesta with a sword as part of a deal between her and the captain of the regiment she stayed near. A skilled, renowned swordsman, Faris was resentful of his time being taken up by a noble. He ran Shalvesta through brutal training for months, degrading her constantly and leaving her covered in fighting bruises and cuts almost every session - but she insisted on her practice, and eventually won the old man over. After an outburst, the two came to an understanding, and Faris' behavior softened considerably - now, he is perhaps the only man that Shalvesta trusts implicitly.
'family' Mash'al:husband =="There is nothing I want to say regarding this man." Shalvesta despises Mash'al. Since she was a little girl, she has been engaged to him - and because of her father's duplicity in having her married up in the world, she earned Mashal's scorn early on. The once independent, smart girl was reduced through hard work and verbal abuse into a demure, quiet woman. Soon she hated Mash'al as much as he hated her - and now, after breaking through her quiet demeanor and becoming a swordsman, she has every intention of killing him if she ever meets him again. Assuming he's alive, that is.
friends Dris'rynne:Respect =="A young girl who gave me some much needed help. Perhaps peace between our people isn't impossible, like I thought?" Dris'rynne helped repair Shalvesta's sword.
familiars NONE
Acquaintance | Respect | Friends | Best Friends | Fear/Dislike | Attraction | Love | Significant Other/Family
One would think that after successfully beating back the people of a soon-to-be conquered land, the people of Oba would be bustling with excitement over their victory. And to be sure, there was a buzz of activity and joviality to some... in their palaces, the nobles were probably tinkering on about their success, helping themselves to what imported, exotic foods had been brought from the strange forests for their pleasure.
But for most, the war was of little consequence - their king, blessed by the gods as a king should be, had assured them of victory, and victory they had gotten. They continued with their work, for work was never short, especially not in times of war, and there was much for a conquering kingdom to do in order to prevail upon their new subjects their superiority and richness.
But for Shalvesta, it all felt so strange.
They had done everything right, everything PERFECTLY. His blade had been blessed by the fires of Atun. The priests had said he was favored by Jonal, for how could he not be, having dedicated his life to such a god? All the gods he’d prayed to, all the runes he’d had inscribed, just to assure her he would return home, and for what? For his sword to be delivered home, the one he’d had made just for the war, the one he’d spoken of hanging above their hearth to show their future children how bravely their father had fought to conquer, a loyal man to the king and crown for all to see. Now it sat in her hands, as pristine as the day it was forged, as if he’d never even drawn it. His family all said it was an honor, to die for his king.
But Shal couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. There was no way such a man could fall. Not without drawing his blade, and fighting tooth and nail. He couldn’t have been cut down so easily.
Her fingers gripped tightly into the hilt of the blade, determination riding inside her as she sheathed the blade and tied it, securely, to her back - not a blade to use, but to carry. She would find him, and return the blade to him, personally. And if he truly was dead, she’d find the one who cut him down… and thank them.
Shalvesta may have been... hasty in her decision to come to the Oban camp. Not wrong, no - she knew with every fibre of her being that she would rather be here than back home, but she also realized that her decision had been one of the moment, and not one that had been thoroughly thought out. Surely, waiting to leave would have proven difficult due to the arrival of new obstacles. The first being that every day she would have potentially waited meant another day she might lose her gumption - her sudden-found courage to actually leave. Waiting would also reduce the likelihood of running into other groups heading out to Tendaji's lush jungleland, meaning the safety of her travel would have been nullified. The third was that her brother-in-law would have arrived within days to secure his inheritance (namely his brother's home and earthly possessions, of which he had many considering Lord Mash'al had been a man of the Gods and, as such, quite fond of expensive things.) And surely he would never have let her out of his sight, and leaving home would have been nigh impossible.
No, coming out here was the best option at the moment, and Shalvesta didn't necessarily regret it. But she did regret not having the time to think her plan through. As it was, she had arrived exhausted at camp only to realize that she had no money, nor skill - no ability she could trade her rooming for, and no faith in her own ability to protect herself, lest she would have gone off into the jungle on her own to search. This realization froze her - and sure enough she had no choice but to rely on her title and rank, at which point what respect her husband's name could dredge up helped land her in a small tent (hopefully from a supply tent, and not liberated from some poor soldier), and an allowance of food. Her first week or so at the camp was spent making up for her horrible planning. Being of nobility, the captain she's appealed to wouldn't stop feeding her out of spite, but eventually if conditions grew bad enough he might be forced to take back what rations he spared for her. Not only that, but mooching off of the soldiers would only make them resentful of her, seeing her as another entitled noble, and if she was to try and get her hands on Mash'al if he was recovered then she needed friends here.
It was hard to make friends, however, when she was simultaneously crippled with anxiety and fear of the amount of strange men here, and also expected by societal pressure to attend to the fancies of the greater nobles that soon began to appear at the camp. These nobles, unlike herself, didn't mind throwing great parties right under the noses of the Soldiers - and at one point a chef, brought to the camp by his noble master, had begun roasting a great beast on a spit right where the soldiers, still 'enjoying' military rations and what local hunted game could be found, could smell and see it roasting. Soon though the nobility grew bored of the camp. Many of them elected to return home, and what few remained were more content for brief calls to tea than elaborate parties - thus freeing up the obligation of Shalvesta's time, allowing her to once more THINK and plan.
As a noblewoman it would be hard to find work to do here unless it was seen out of the kindness of her heart. She could tend to the few wounded, as a nurse, but the battle had so few injuries thanks to the work of the Great Beasts that those who HAD been wounded had been well tended to far before now. That left the option of hunting, which was absolutely ridiculous given she hadn't been trained with a weapon since she was a youngling, and suggesting hunting would be the same as any other dainty lady asking soldiers to protect her for a walk out in the dangerous jungle, when the soldiers had better things to do.
There really was only one thing she could hope for. And it was… a risk, considering she had run from home, and only the risk of public embarrassment kept her husband’s family from speaking out about her sudden departure to Tendaji (since Shalvesta highly doubted that they were unaware of her location, with how many nobles she’d spoken to in her brief stay here already). But her last resort was to write home to her father, who she had barely seen in the last eight years. And so it was that one morning, nearly a month since she had left ‘home’ to come to Tendaji, Shalvesta handed a folded letter, pressed closed with wax and stamped with her husband’s sigil in ink, and addressed to her father.
Now she simply had to wait.
Spending her days at the newly erected barracks helped the time fly by, and so within a week she had an answer, and the young prentice found herself announcing her presence to a young prentice who was stationed outside of the captain’s quarters. After ducking inside, the boy returned and opened the flap for her, allowing her to duck inside. The captain was an older man, his hair thick and a dark wine-red, dreaded and pulled back behind his ears, salty white tinging at his temples and his beard. He forced an amiable smile when Shalvesta appeared, setting down a scroll that she could only assume was information on keeping his trainees fed and supplied, if not the better part of the host while the generals had more important things to plan. While so close to Oban, it was important to set up supply stations in case the army moved on, deeper into Tendaji’s jungles.
“My lady, what can a humble officer such as myself help you with this morning?” He asked, but Shalvesta could hear a tinge of unease in his tone. He was kind, since she was young, but no doubt he expected the worst from a noblewoman who had come to, no doubt, ask a favor. The girl took a shaky breath and set her hands in her lap, taking a seat opposite where the captain sat at his table. “A-actually, Captain - we… I was hoping to repay you. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, though I’m… aware of my possible burden on your kindness.”
This piqued his interest, but only slightly. His eyebrow rose, and the captain shifted slightly in his chair, one hand raising to lightly brush over the hairs of his mustache, gazing at her. A noble’s promises were often shallow - sometimes rich gifts were given, but nothing of use was usually bestowed. “My lady, that was simply an act of respect to you, no need to repay it.” He said, humbly, but Shalvesta knew better. To not offer up such a thing to a noble was… well. It was definitely a social taboo, especially for an officer - if he offended anyone of importance then he would have to rely solely on his merit in the war to rise in station, without the political backing of rich supporters. It was something that many nobles came to expect, like a sort of hostage situation with someone’s honor and status.
“Be that as it may…” She said, placatingly, her voice becoming quiet. She just… hoped this wouldn’t backfire. “I have sent a letter to my father and he said he would be delighted to repay your gifts with those of his own.” Saying this, Shalvesta took a scroll from her belt and held it for the Captain’s servant to take, ducking her eyes to her lap as the boy stepped around the desk and presented it to the captain. Within the letter were promises of new weapons and food - definitely at a sizeable expense to her father, not doubt. But he WAS a wealthy enough merchant to buy his daughter a man’s favor, and whatever guilt over inadvertently making her a widow that he had had no doubt helped urge him to agree to her request.
The Captain, however, finally reacted. He sat forward quite suddenly, his mouth dropping open in shock, and he only barely recovered - rolling up the letter and returning it, but then staring at her across the table, flabbergasted but relieved at this. It was a small enough thing - after all what supplies Shalvesta’s father could give would only be enough to supply the training force under the Captain’s command, but it was hopefully enough to make an ally of him, and assuage any resentment the other soldiers felt.
“This is… this is QUITE generous, my lady.” He gasped, running a hand over a sweating forehead. But one small part of him resisted wholeheartedly agreeing. “This letter - this letter did mention that I should meet all of your ladyship’s requests, in exchange. What requests are those?”
Ah. Waiting for the other boot to drop. It was finally at this point that Shalvesta looked up at him, biting the inside of her cheek, her heart hammering in her throat. But somehow she summoned enough courage to answer. “A weapon. And someone to teach me to use it.”
“Of course, whatever her ladyship wants.” The captain finally gushed. These were small allowances for such a gift. One weapon plucked from a pile of supplies for his trainees - and rations taken from food gifted to his men.
And yet as she rose to her feet, and walked back to her tent, all she could think was that this man could never understand just how much pressure this let off of her as well. Finally she could assuage the feeling of debt to these men, as well as receive a weapon and training in wielding it. Soon, she hoped, with this training she could go into the jungles and finally continue what she’d started a month before. And if she, like any true noblewoman, simply had to swallow her pride and ride on the coattails of her family's wealth, it was worth it to get to her goal. ...Right?
In the days following her gift to the captain of the training division, Shalvesta was given a wooden training sword (and promised a sword from the armory upon completion of her basic training from her future instructor), and was allowed to practice by herself in the training field after most soldiers had finished using it. Of course, whacking a figure stuffed with cut leaves and mushrooms from the jungle didn't really teach the prentice much, if anything, about swordplay.
Finally, a courier arrived at Shalvesta's tent announcing the arrival of a sword instructor. Dawn the following morning found the girl standing in the shade at the edge of the Oban camp, startlingly close to the edge of the jungle, with its looming noises of insects and ominous glow. Shalvesta's instructor, a stern-looking Oban soldier named Faris, paced around the cleared land, his curved boots sinking slightly into the strange, spongey floor of the cleared land, unstomped into firmness under the feet of the Oban army. Muscled arms folded over a broad chest, and his brows curved severely down, wrinkling above a long nose as he stared at her, as if aghast at the look of the woman he'd been summoned to train. Shalvesta simply stood, as motionless as possible, her wooden sword wrapped by a rope to her hip.
He paced in silence, occassionally stopping to just look at her, nostrils flaring, then would continue - appearing like some caged animal testing the length and width of its cage. "Girl." Faris finally snapped, and Shalvesta shot to attention, spine straightening stiffly as he finally ambled closer. He wasn't a tall man - only a few inches taller than Shalvesta herself, and while he didn't appear squat by any means, he looked strong and capable regardless. His own blade was a curved scimitar, tied by a sturdy sash to his belt, sheathed in polished leather. As he came close, Shal half feared he'd draw it and strike her down, but hastily reminded herself that this man, angry though he may appear, had no cause or REASON to slash her apart. That didn't stop her from swallowing, thickly, averting her eyes from his piercing gaze. "No, you look at me." He hissed, almost instantly, and it was with great effort that Shalvesta drew her eyes back up - finding them crossing slightly to stare at a finger that had been leveled close to her face.
"Before we start, I want you to know, girl, that I'm no pushover. If you want to be trained, properly, then you won't get any cushy special treatment. The first time you show up late, I'm done with you - the first time you complain, I'll throw you at a teacher more your level." He stared at her, hard, then finally dropped his hand, backing off. Shalvesta couldn't resist the deep sigh of relief that left her lungs, even if the sound earned a somewhat amused smirk from the old swordsman. "Are we understood, my lady?" He asked, stressing the title mockingly. Never before had the word sounded like such an insult, and to be honest Shalvesta was thrilled by it. Terrified of the man, most definitely - and terrified of whatever harsh treatment he was promising.
But she found herself nodding, letting out a tremulous 'Yes, ser' before she had even thought about it. He wasn't impressed, not by a long shot, but at least he wasn't drawing his sword on her. She decided it was a plus.
Maybe she'd sided with the man, and been somewhat pleased with him that first time, but as time passed Shalvesta was sure she was growing to HATE this man. Maybe not with a soul burning passion, but simply out of pure exhaustion. Faris operated on a strict timetable - she was up at dawn, running laps around the camp with other recruits. After that was finished, she was allowed a quick breakfast and water, then was set to swordplay exercises - often beginning with lessons on balance and grip strength, but sometimes focusing on squats, building the power of the thighs, Faris had once explained. After hours of 'warming up', followed by a light lunch so as not to become ill from overheating, Shalvesta would then train one on one with Faris. Often it was practice of basic steps and parries - but sometimes he trained her by trying to disarm her, othertimes he focused on tripping her up.
Whatever the exercises were, in the late afternoon when she was finally dismissed each day Shalvesta was certain she had never hated a man as much as she hated this Faris - her body was soon covered in bruises from these lessons, her muscles sore and quivering from being overworked. Her fingers blistered from the handle of the sword, painfully bursting during one training exercise a few days in - but over time they calloused, and the sharp pain from her wounds healed over. The first time she was struck, on the wrist, by his blade she'd cried out and thrown the sword away almost pointedly, quickly giving in. She was no stranger to pain, and to Faris' credit he never struck her untless she was armed - exceeding her expectations, and building up a somewhat tentative trust with the man.
But he did constantly degrade and berate her, and for that Shalvesta couldn't cross that final threshold of trust. "A true enemy would never give you the chance to retrieve your blade. But I'll let the little lady retrieve her toy sword, this time." He once explained as Shalvesta, wincing from a blow to her inner knee, limped to scoop her blade back up into her grip. Always he would sneer, looking down his nose at her, but also looking oddly pensieve, as if considering. Never impressed - Shalvesta never saw him look more than mildly approving, and even then it came with complaints. "I've never had a student of mine take SO LONG to learn such a simple lesson!!" He would often exclaim, casting his eyes to the heavens as if praying to the gods for patience.
Against this swordsman, Shalvesta felt she would never improve - always he disarmed her with relative ease. He was large, and every attempt to disarm him resulted in nary a flinch. He would fling her away as if shaking off a flea, his blows quickly bringing her to tears, falling to her knees with a gasp. One day, after disarming her with ease, Faris insisted that she would never keep a hold on her blade, and that he might as well teach her how to disarm an enemy. His insults and groans about her incompetence echoed in her ears after she became sick, losing her lunch following an intense tussle during which she'd tried to disarm her teacher, only to be thrown to the ground and pinned.
And yet despite all his complaints, constant exclamations and hissed groans of impatience, Faris never once left and Shalvesta never once complained, at least audibly. Whenever she lost her temper, she would never utter a word, and yet would stare at the man, meeting his gaze and feeling even more fury at the amusement he found there. He never let up, and never approved of her progress - until one day.
One day when, after the daily jog around the camp, Faris announced that Shalvesta would be training with the normal recruits. Instantly, after all this time, Shalvesta couldn't contain it. "After all this -- EVERYTHING, what has convinced you to give up on me? Did I not improve quick enough for you, ser?!" She'd never exclaimed like this - never yelled at a man, never let her fury pour into her voice. And it enraged her that there Faris stood, the old man leaning back with his arms crossed, just looking at her as if she'd never said a word. The fear and guilt that normally would eat her apart instead blossomed into fury. "I am not the best soldier, nor the best with a blade, but I have tried to do all you've asked. I didn't complain or come late - I've kept MY end of the bargain!"
"So you have." Faris said, his voice more calm than Shalvesta had ever heard it. "And a piss-poor swordsman you are." He continued, smirking. Shalvesta wanted to wring his large neck in her hands, but somehow resisted - instead glaring. And that? That made him laugh, his head tossing back as if surprised by her. "But I've never met a more stubborn soldier - and I've never trained someone who just REFUSED to stay down. Most soldiers need some morale, some assurance of sometimes winning, to keep going - but you're too stupid to know when to quit." He snorted and shook his head. "No - no, I'm sending you to train with the recruits - for today - because you're nowhere NEAR close enough to win in a fair fight against a tried and true soldier, like myself." Faris grinned, and opened his hands, spreading them out around the camp, gesturing, "But any of these green soldiers would have a hard time handling you. And that stubborn, thick head of yours, girl, won't understand that until you've whipped them as thoroughly as I'm sure you can."
Her mouth dropped open. The rage simmered a moment, under her skin like an itch, but slowly the reality of just what this man - who had spent the longest time ripping her actions apart - had just said. "But you..." She started, but even now the man wouldn't hear of it. He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Don't let that bloat your head - all these soldiers are soft, new and thin skinned. Anyone would be able to knock them down a peg if I had trained them for HALF the time I trained you." He said it airily, and yet... something in the dismissive words seemed forced. Shal watched him, now more contemplative and curious than before. He was setting her up for failure - he must be. Pumping her up with false bravado, then pitting her against an actual, trained soldier - she couldn't let her guard down.
And yet as she was dismissed to training, and pitted in one of the many one-on-one training matches she'd once watched in this same arena with a feeling of lost consternation, she now found that anticipating an attack was EASY. In a fight where Faris easily knocked Shalvesta to the ground with a skilled swipe of his wooden sword, Shalvesta danced circles around this poor boy. In record time, when she had never before won a match, having only fought against Faris, now she found her the flat of her blade knocking against an unprepared wrist, the training sword flying from the recruit's hand to the ground with a thump of utter finality. And so it was with the next soldier, and the next - by the time Shalvesta finally gave in to her exhaustion and was tripped up, she had fought at least six recruits, and left the training circle to a chorus of 'Good job, Shal' and bright, impressed grins.
Beyond the crowd of soldiers, who turned to watch the winner fight her next round, Shalvesta spotted Faris - and pointedly walked right past him. He didn't follow - but he did call out to her. "You should complain more often, girl, that silent act doesn't suit you." He said, his tone cocky. Shalvesta paused to consider it, but didn't even cast a glance over her shoulder. She was too tired for his nonsense, today.
It wasn't until she was back in her tent, soaking her bruised body in a tub of hot water, that Shalvesta realized she hadn't felt even a fraction of guilt it.
Shalvesta still remembered the moment she became a mercenary in name, but in retrospect couldn’t remember the slippery slope that led her to where she was now.
In Jauhar, for two years after the end of the invasion, the young swordsman served as an extra hand in protecting trade caravans… a body to stand beside the goods, with a sword at hand, defending the procession from wayward creatures or sneak thieves. The actual presence of bandits was negligible, and so it didn’t matter to anyone that Shalvesta was tiny, built with lean muscle but still shy of much experience. There was no shame to be found in losing; when she came away from a scuffle with a pair of hungry young Alkidike with an arrow deeply embedded in her leg, she wasn’t berated for her failure in protecting a satchel of produce. Instead, she was patched up and helped onto the back of the cart for the remainder of the trip, accompanied by a chatty young lady who packed her leg a bit too tightly.
The life was simple, and certainly Shalvesta could have continued living in this vein indefinitely- had that omnipresent fear of being found not caught up with her. Constantly on the move though she was, the young Oban moved through circuitous routes with the tradesmen from one settlement in Jauhar to the next, flitting at the border of Tale, before rolling back to Oba’s edge for more supplies to trade.
In the first two years, any Oban that moved through Jauhar was likely to be poor, eager to escape the cramped spaces in Oba. People she didn’t recognize. But soon, when the nobility deemed it safe, they arrived in a flurry of tourism. Faces that, for the most part, were unfamiliar, and yet… some rang in her mind. That man she’d seen at a function, thrown by Mash’al - that one had been a lady she’d sewn with, with her mother-in-law. Those familiar faces were enough. What if Shalvesta was recognized? Would she be dragged back? The overwhelming urge was to flit away into Tale - but there, she would stand out. An Oban swordswoman. Any Oban who appeared where she was would seek out their own kind, and what IF it was someone she knew?
Shalvesta returned to Oba. There, an Oban fit in and was nothing special - the cities were so crowded, and frequenting the slums and dirtier neighborhoods meant it was unlikely she would be noticed by anyone from her old circle of influence.
And, over time, as her coin dwindled, that meant work.
Guarding a caravan from the occasional challenge, that was child's play compared to the real deal, and here it MATTERED if you succeeded. It was difficult, at first, to find work when she was small, spindly, and inexperienced, but even now she remembers the event that started it all. Hungry and half-drunk, Shalvesta forgot her tongue and loudly announced that she would provide extra muscle to help evict two wayward patrons from a tavern. “An’ how are YOU gonna get me to leave, little bird?” A grizzled old soldier slurred, giving her a once over while she flushed with shame. “Gonna lure me out? I don’t see my business wi’ YOU takin’ me outside - upstairs, maybe.” The patron licked his lips, lewdly, and swept his gaze back up - just in time to see the blur of Shalvesta’s fist as it crashed into his face. Biting his tongue from the impact, the man choked around the burst of blood in his mouth and clutched at his face, only to release a sudden, gurgling yelp when shoved to the ground, face first. A knee pressed against his spine, Shalvesta sneered as she grabbed a handful of his long, greasy hair. “You’re going to walk out, on your own two feet - you just need some convincing.” The swordsman purred, yanking his head back painfully with a smile.
In the next moment, Shalvesta released her prey and stood back, raising her hands defensively, peering down at the gleaming silver of a knife pointed at her by one of the barmen. Rather than look offended, however, he regarded her with some interest and, seeing that she had backed off, he withdrew the blade and instead extended his hand for the bleeding soldier to take, yanking him upright once his hand was taken. “Yoo ‘tupid woman, meh tongue--” The assaulted man mumbled, opening his mouth. The tongue hadn’t been bitten off, but it had definitely been bit quite hard. After looking at his mouth, the barman laughed and grabbed the patron by the shoulder, giving him a hard shove towards the door. “Maybe yeh’ll stay sober a while this time, eh? Go on, get outta here.”
Glowering as the drunk man sauntered away with a wayward glare, Shalvesta’s features shuttered as she crossed her arms, back stepping from the taller man who had pulled the knife on her - only to be stopped as he clicked his tongue. “Now now, missy - you made a mess here. Clean it up - then we’ll talk.” She blinked, but quickly caught a dish rag as it was tossed her way, squinting down at the slobber and blood that was left behind on the ground from her efforts. “Talk? What do WE have to talk about?” Shalvesta shot back carefully, wincing against a headrush as she knelt to begin work. The rest of the previously jeering patrons returned to their drinks, their thrill diminished, but the barman merely bent to pick up the knocked aside stool, tilting his head down to look at her. “You started a fight way too early, but that was quite a hit! You’re stronger than you look, girl - I can spare a few coins a night for an extra pair of eyes around here… IF you don’t go jumping on anyone that makes a pass at you.” He flashed her a toothy grin, “You’re in the wrong neighborhood to get so flustered about it, missy.”
Shalvesta didn’t stay working at that bar for long, but that was how it began. While she worked predominantly at taverns and bars, which could pay her in food and rent upstairs, Shalvesta learned the tools of the trade, and moved down the inglorious road towards becoming a true mercenary. It wasn’t glamorous by any means, but it was work. It was a way of life, for now… that was what she told herself. But now, as the seven year anniversary of the Oban invasion came around, it was with the realization that she had spent five years living like this, somehow.
Five years… and what did she have to show for it? Not even a room to call her own - only a growing history of alcohol and increasingly dubious jobs under her belt.
Five years, and only a few settlements away she had a family, once upon a time.
Or… did she have a family still? How long could Shalvesta truly keep up such a life… working with the lowest of the low, and skittering away in fear anytime a noble came too close into her vicinity ?
“...A perzi.” Shalvesta echoed flatly, narrowing her eyes as she examined the outstretched kitten. Tiny, bald, and ugly, the thing might have been cute if she didn’t find its presence so offensive. For the past few months, probably the most stable time in the past five years, Shalvesta had found a home on a small cot in the storeroom of a small restaurant. Her job here was simply to prevent any sort of ruckus, as the customers were higher class merchants, and low born nobility. She was awarded food and a bed, as well as a tiny amount of gold coins every week, and the work was simple.
The worst she had to contend with was the occasional theft of pottery or supplies, which happened on occasion. That was, of course, until the ward invasion. Wards generally weren’t pests… they limited themselves usually to bugs outside. But, in the over congested Oban cities, it wasn’t unusual to have a population spike, that led to many of them sneaking into houses, making nests, and making nuisances of themselves. And so it was that the young perzi kitten was being shoved out towards Shalvesta as her new roommate in the storeroom, held out by the scruff of its neck. Its skin was a dark gray, with royal blue crystals that would have caught any nobles’ eye as a domesticated kitten, had she not been born in a litter of warder perzi.
“Only for a little while, to herd out the wards.” Shalvesta’s employer responded, gruffly, finally growing impatient and pushing the kitten into her arms, before spinning on his heel and tromping out to the restaurant floor. Huffing a sigh, the swordsman flopped down to sit on her cot, setting the small creature in her lap as it began to wriggle grumpily, rubbing it behind the ears to soothe it. Immediately, though, the kitten slipped off her lap and began to explore the large storeroom, peeking behind boxes and mewing, curiously. Every so often, as Shalvesta watched, the kitten was startled by something, and came bounding back to her, only to eventually tiptoe back to sneak around again.
“You silly thing, I thought you were a trained warder.” Shalvesta murmured, relaxing now that her employer had left. She didn’t hate perzi… but she didn’t like the idea of sharing her space with it, anyway. They could have behavioral issues, after all, and she didn’t want to wake up scratched to bits, or mauled by a growing perzi.
… But this one didn’t seem so bad. And if, when night came around, she enjoyed the warmth of Pima, the young perzi, cuddled next to her, purring up a storm as she scratched behind its ears, was that so bad?
Perzi, as it so happened, grew large quickly. It seemed as if Pima was a tiny little kitten for all of two weeks, then suddenly was sprouting like a weed. Before Shalvesta knew it, the cat took up most of her lap, hanging off of her knees haphazardly when she tried to make herself comfortable. By the time a month had passed, Pima had outstayed her welcome… though not for Shalvesta, but for the owner of the tavern. Shalvesta, despite her reluctance to house the cat where she slept, had quickly fallen in love with the beast… perhaps it was a kernel of loneliness that longed for companionship, or a simple joy in living beside a familiar.
It was becoming clear, however, that the tavern’s owner was getting sick of the perzi. The ward problem waned with each passing day, as Pima did her job far too well, but perzi didn’t do well within doors. Without little creatures to chase, the beast was locked inside, unable to follow as Shalvesta went about her duties in the building beyond, and at times, while she worked, the swordsman could hear the yowls, along with the raking of claws against a heavy, wooden doorframe. The patrons, at first, were amused, but as the days passed they shot increasingly annoyed looks towards the storeroom, looks that Shalvesta tried not to think about.
But, sure enough, a day came when, as she was getting ready, the door to the storeroom opened and the owner appeared, glowering at the perzi, which lay curled up on Shalvesta’s bed. “I wish you hadn’t got so attached to it. You do good work, but you know… that thing’s gotta go. ...don’t look at me like that.” He grumbled, shoulders falling under the harsh look Shal shot his way. Rubbing the back of his neck, the man looked down at the clawmarks, gouged into the door. “You knew it was comin’, you’re not stupid. … Are you gonna give me a hard time about this?”
“I don’t know - where will she go?” Shalvesta returned carefully, feeling oddly gratified that he was withering under her gaze.
“Who knows? I can look for someone who needs an exteriminator, but they’re a dime a dozen around here.” Rubbing his face, the man shrugged. “You do good work here, but I don’t wanna argue about a perzi with you…”
“Ok, then I quit.” Turning on her heel, Shal tugged her sword back to her belt, and crossed the room to her bedside, ducking to tug out her few belongings from underneath it. As she packed, the owner huffed unhappily behind her, throwing his hands into the air. “You’re joking! You’re going to leave over this?”
“This isn’t my home, believe it or not - it’s just work.” She returned, but was unable to meet his eyes. He seemed so torn up about it, but she? It was just another place to stay… although she’d been here quite a long time, all things considered. Shaking her head, Shal stood with her packed bag and pat Pima on the head, waking her as she looped a collar around her neck.
Nevermind that it was foolish to take a perzi with her… automatically, that would make it much harder to find work, or a place to stay. But Shalvesta just couldn’t leave her - it had been so long since she’d made any sort of connection, she couldn’t… just couldn’t give this up. Not without trying, at least.
Dimly, she was aware of her previous employer leaving the room in a huff, but she couldn’t make herself care about it. He’d been good to her, as an employer… decent, and respectful. But in the end, he was just another person in a sea of thousands in Oba, and the sooner she moved on the better. At least, that was what she had come to tell herself.
Shalvesta lives in the moment, and hasn’t quite come to terms with her treatment by her family or in laws. I thought that by having her confront her family, she could move on in the future and get over some issues from her past.
Shalvesta was not unused to the hustle and bustle of a busy city street, but in five years she had, somehow, forgotten that it could come in different shades. In the cramped and labyrinthine ‘roads’ of Sulburi, buried between painfully vertical towers of clay and wood, the roads were narrow, packed in between assembled storefronts and throngs of people, milling to and fro along maps ingrained into their brains. No foreigner could hope to navigate the chaos, not without aid, and so it was that many would struggle out of the oppressive humidity that came with so many people packed in together and would, instead, step out onto the narrow, sunken alleyways that were less traveled. Even here, however, in the underbelly of the city, where shady taverns and sunken fighting pits were more prevalent, you couldn’t escape the narrow walkways, the claustrophobic rooms, and the barrage of face after face. After half a decade spent here, it was easy to believe that this was simply the state of the world… when, in truth, this wasn’t the case, not even in Oba.
When asked “Where ya headed, lass?” by a friendly merchant leaving Sulburi, Shalvesta had shrugged, careless, as she hitched herself up to sit on the back of the cart and replied “Anywhere but here.”
For so long Shalvesta had nestled herself within the anonymity of Sulburi’s crowds, nurtured by the lonesome nights and the hundreds of blank faces. In the alleys of Sulburi, she could give in to the itch in her blood that called for violence. In the alleys of Sulburi, the aching bruises, the scraped skin on her knuckles and the bloody taste in her mouth were from a fight that SHE had picked, and each bruise had been paid back in kind. As a mercenary Shalvesta could unleash that howling beast within her and could have some sort of peace, for a short while at least.
And for a time that was enough. But now… especially after speaking with Damissan, Shalvesta was… tempted to seek out something else. Once, she had been terrified of being recognized, and had buried herself in the slums to avoid the nobility who could put a name to her face. There, she had given in to routine, and hadn’t braved the unknown world beyond the rough and tumble life she’d come to know. She wasn’t sure when, exactly, that fear had lessened, but now…
Here, in this settlement, as she climbed down from the cart and watched the morning throngs of workers, she recognized that this place was very different from Sulburi. There were still assembled storefronts and carts parked at the corners of the block, but the streets here were... wider, built for the passage of wagons and trade carts. Where in Sulburi the streets were lined with numerous smaller stores and buildings, built skyward so tall they blocked out the sun, here… this neighborhood, at least, was built for warehouses. Dozens of laborers rushed out to each cart and, upon sale, carrying them up a ramp to the opened bays, depositing them to be sorted by more workers.
Warehouses… “We’re… in Orrod?” She asked, eyes widening in realization. She didn’t need to hear the affirmation from the man she had traveled with. Even now, as she gazed around, Shalvesta recognized the streets. She remembered this place - though in her time it had been staffed by Matori slaves. Now, though many of the faces were Matori, there were others here: Obans, Shifters, even a few others speckled here and there, all here working together.
And she recognized this place specifically. Slowly she stepped forward, looking from person to person, ignoring the meek voice in the back of her head that insisted that she had once abhorred the idea of being recognized. Suddenly, now that she was here, such thoughts seemed foolish - she was in Orrod. Not just in Orrod, she was right down the street from her father’s warehouse!
Without realizing it she had broken into a run, ignoring the suspicious and startled faces she blazed past, feet loudly stomping up the ramp that led to the opening of a warehouse. As she neared the foreman, an older man with streaks of gray in his hair and beard, Shalvesta was blocked by an outstretched arm, which bumped harmlessly against her chest as she tried to breeze past. “Hey, lady, you can’t just breeze in here! If you want work, you need to go through Tamra, just like everyone else.” Her interceptor shot out, giving her a hard look. Lip drawn back into a feral snarl, Shalvesta shifted backwards and spun to face the man, her hand shooting to her sword - only to freeze. Within the face of the man, who was younger than her by a few years, was a face she recognized. Without the baby fat and long, wayward curls of hair, that is. “Mirza?”
The face paused, then twisted into confusion. Deep wine eyes turned towards the foreman, who was making his way over to the pair. With his father coming to his side, Mirza once again returned his focus to her, as she stared, hungrily drinking in the details of her little brother’s face. He had grown - his face was soft and round, still somewhat lined with the chub of youth, but his limbs seemed thick and strong and there was no doubt there was muscle under the bulk. A scattering of dark whiskers along his jaw showed his age, and his curls had been tamed, pushed back behind a band of cloth, and trimmed short behind the ears. Shal finally snapped out of it when he shifted away, clearly unnerved.
Tinging with embarassment, Shal turned her eyes away, and instead looked at the foreman… her father, as he gazed at her. A spark of recognition was alight in his eyes, but the look of confusion and growing unease showed that, after all this time, her own father couldn’t immediately recognize her. All this time, fearing recognition, and now that she was in front of someone who knew her, they couldn’t. She wanted to grab a hold of him and shake him, wanted to scream ‘why don’t you recognize me?!’ into his face.
Instead, Shalvesta turned on her heel as if to storm away, but after only a step, she knew in her gut that she wouldn’t. For a long moment, she tried to force it - to make herself move, to leave, to once again drop into anonymity.
And that time wrestling with herself was, apparently, enough time. “...Shal? Shalvesta, is that you?” Her father had reached out a hand to her, but quickly retracted it as she turned to face him, her own expression drawn tight in resignation. Mirza, meanly, looked quickly between them, then settled on her, his own eyes shooting wide at the revelation.
“Father…We need to talk.”
-
It had been more than ten years since Shalvesta had been in this house. It was well-kept, comfortable and tidy, but well lived in. Her grandparents had lived and died in this house, and so it went for as many generations as her family cared to remember. The memories of her childhood here, with scuffed knees and tangled hair, hiding in barrels or climbing stacks of goods were some of her best memories, and the thought of it almost made her want to cry. Almost.
Here, in the sitting room, her father had hosted family, merchants, and nobles… as well as her mother-in-law, and husband. In this room, all that time ago, Shalvesta had been brought out, cleaned and dressed in her finest dress, hair combed out, a girl of nine or so, staring across the table in awe at the ten year old boy she was promised to marry. That was the last night she had spent in this house… the very next day, she was whisked away to Jatine.
And now here she was, across the table from her father and younger brother, while her mother fussed and called orders to an old Matori woman from where she sat. Her brother and father had washed and changed into clean, if modest clothes, but even in this Shalvesta saw wealth. The clothes were soft, durable but too-clean, clothing that saw little practical use. Her mother who, when Shalvesta left, had hurried about cooking and cleaning, who had well-worn hands and harried features so long ago, now dressed prettily, her hair swept back tidily, and when she took Shalvesta’s hands, they were soft, lotioned and tinged with a citrusy scent.
They were all clean cut, but well cared for, gazing across the table at their daughter who, by all accounts, should have been just as clean and dainty as they, if not more so. And yet here she was, with nails cut short with dirt underneath, hair shaggy and half dreaded, fingers calloused from using a sword, her face painted and pierced, and not in the fancier ways of court. As she sipped at her tea, Shalvesta gripped the cup by the rim, lifting it fully to drink from as one would a mug of ale, ignoring the appalled stare her mother sent her - if anything drawing satisfaction from it. Once she’d had her fill, Shal set the cup down and fixed eyed with her father, Babak. “I never did thank you for your donation to the army, father.” She began, her tone to the point and perhaps too harsh. Her father’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t comment on it, and instead shrugged his shoulder, letting out a soft huff of a laugh. “Took some explaining, after how things went with the war, but no harm done in the long term. We’ve moved away from army deals - imports are the best bet, these days. … A letter would’ve been nice, though. We thought you… were dead, all these years.” He laughed, but there was little mirth in his tone, only reprimand and an attempt and joviality that wasn’t there. Hollow, and almost painful to sit through.
Donating arms, and marrying your only daughter to a pro-war noble family certainly must have made things rough, but they seemed to have carried on with the new business, and despite thinking her dead they still seemed awkwardly embarrassed to have her sitting here, in such a state. Shalvesta set her jaw, but fought the urge to snap at him, and instead shifted her eyes to her mother, Shirin, who was shaking her head mournfully. “I really do wish you’d come home after all that business, dear… all this time, and you’ve been…” Shirin fought a sob, and instead shook her head, burying her mouth against her hand. Once past her outburst of emotion, the woman reached out to touch Shalvesta again, her hand horribly soft against Shal’s - she felt almost as if she shouldn’t be touching this woman, despite it being her own mother. “Ran off! To the army! No lady should be in such a place. And then where, for seven years? Living with heathens? Is that it?”
Mirza huffed out a husky laugh, but ducked his head sheepishly at a sharp look from his mother. “Well - is she even a lady still, really? The Tahan family is practically ruined these days, right?”
“What?” Shal raised her head, retracting her hand from her mother’s and staring at her brother, shocked.
“Mirza! This is not the time!” Shirin scolded, fretting, tugging at her fingers nervously.
“No, the boy is right.” Babak agreed, his tone somber. Taking the time to clear his throat, Shalvesta waited impatiently as he rearranged himself in his seat, smoothing out his beard and picking his words. “It was all badly timed. With the new king, the Tahan family simply lost so much. They were huge supporters of the war, put so much into it, and without all that coming back in… well.” Shaking his head, Babak chuckled then looked at Shalvesta, reaching across the table to pat her hand soothingly. “But you married in, just in time! It’s true, you’re only a lady in name, but once you recover from your… trip… I’m certain there are plenty of lucky lords that would be pleased to have such a lovely wife.”
“But dear… a second marriage, and so young? Surely--”
“Enough!” Shalvest yanked her hands back from both her parents, shoving away from the table and scrambling up from the pillows, eyes alight with fury. Heaving in a quick breath, Shalvesta rounded on her father, gesturing towards her chest with her hand, “Are you serious? Do you… do you think I ever cared about being nobility? I never wanted that! I never WANTED it.”
“Now… now, dear, calm yourself, this hysteria is--” Babak half rose from the table, eyes flashing in warning, but before he could move Shalvesta had climbed, bodily, over the table, kicking over the pot of tea, uncaring that Mirza scrambled away from it with a yelp. Once on the other side, standing now between her mother and her father, she continued, hands drawn tightly into fists. “This isn’t hysteria! You sent me away! I was just a girl, and you sent me away to live with… with strangers!”
“Dear, stop this at once! We only did what we thought was best for you.” Shirin protested, meekly, but she shrunk under the weight of Shalvesta’s stare as she rounded on her. “You, of all people-- you were there, at first, mother. You saw. Is that what you thought was best for me?! That little monster?! He… they… they were horrible! They made my life a living hell, and you think that’s what I needed?!”
“Why… I -- but…” Her father blustered, face flushed in a mix of fury and mortification, ducking his eyes away. Never, not once, had she protested in the past, and yet… they all knew, silently, that it hadn’t been what she wanted. Were these really the small justifications that allowed them to spend the last decade in bliss, thinking they’d done their best for their daughter? Pathetic.
“No. I won’t be married, not again.” Shalvesta expected an argument, but her father merely rambled for a moment, incoherently, before stopping, grumbling under his breath. He resented being yelled at, but she knew it was simply too much, too soon. As strong as she felt for declaring her independence… she knew he wouldn’t be happy to sit with it. Even now, he gripped his hands into weak fists and glowered at her mutinously. He didn’t hate her, and he didn’t wish pain on her - Shalvesta knew this, even if the pain of the past, of a little girl who had been sure her father would protect her from everything, cried out for justification. But even now, as she argued, she held the title of lady, and in that he felt he was right in whatever course of action he’d taken. Shaking her head, Shalvesta stepped back from the table, unable to meet the startled, confused look her brother was sending her. He had been so young, then… young enough to remember her in the vaguest of memories, and to know she’d existed, but not old enough to have known the details. HE only knew his sister was a lady, before her supposed death - why should he think she would have lived a hard life?
“I’m leaving. I’ll visit, again - if I’m welcome, but I won’t marry. Not for anyone but myself.”
And with her mother’s soft nod as answer, Shalvesta brushed past the Matori servant as she shuffled forward to clean the spilled tea, willing herself to ignore the eyes staring into her back.
They couldn’t hurt her anymore, not as they once had. Shalvesta was strong now, and from now on she knew she had the strength to protect herself. And now she also knew she no longer had anything to fear. Not her family, nor her ghost of a husband, nor the specters she’d been sure haunted her every step. And for the first time in a lifetime, Shalvesta walked with shoulders unbowed by the weight of fear. At least for this moment.
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