- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- Writing Levels
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Female
- Genres
- Sci-fi, fantasy, magical, modern, Steampunk
The coarse cloth of the black bag they'd shoved over her head compressed Twirlip's world to a tiny realm marked only by scents of blood and rot, the heavy jangle of chains, and the tramp of booted feet. Strong hands held her biceps and propelled her along. Her forearms were shoved into an iron pipe behind her back so that her hands could pick no pockets and pull no tricks. Cuffs around her arms kept her from pulling them free. Chains led from the pipe to a rough iron collar around her neck, and manacles around her feet with a short chain between them that barely offered her enough length to shuffle along.
Her heart hammered in her chest, and her mind scrambled for some clever last-moment scheme, some way of escape, even though she knew there would be none. All that matters now is how I die, she thought, gathering her resolve for what lie ahead. I have to keep the Men of the Mist from trying anything, so they can live to fight on.
"So...sounds like ye have at least eight men behind me an' eight in front," she said in the peasant patois she'd adopted since her escape from the palace years before. "I guess I should be flattered."
"Shut it," a guard behind her said, giving her a hard shove. She slammed into the guards in front of her and tripped on a stair. Someone behind her grabbed the pipe and wrenched her up, twisting her shoulders. She gritted her teeth to deny them a cry of pain, scrambling to find her feet on the spiral staircase that led up from the dungeons.
"Awww, no need t' be so mean t' poor Twirlip in her last moments o' life," she said in a teasing lilt. "By th' way, how long has the Executioner been at his work? It'd be nice t' get a clean cut by an experienced hand, rather than th' work of an incompetent hack."
"He'll have you squealin' like a piglet soon enough," the guard snapped. "Hope 'e cuts yer tongue out first."
"How long?"
"You really wanna know? Six years he's been cuttin' fer the King. They say he loves his job like no one in the Realm." Twirlip thought she heard an undertone of fear in the guard's voice.
Oh Weith... Twirlip thought. She'd had a different name when they'd pulled capers together, two lonely kids from opposite ends of the social spectrum finding solace in each other's company. Memories started to flood her mind, but she shook her head to clear them. Ulianov will want to hear me beg, she thought, so I'll need to make my words count. The King had been a cruel and capricious boy when she'd been betrothed to him. He was a cruel and capricious young man now. And Weith has--again, she pushed the Executioner from her thoughts so she could focus on what her last words would be.
After a rattling of locks and the opening of a heavy door, the dank air of the dungeon was replaced by the dry air of the Presidio, a fortified guardhouse within the Palace. Twirlip's mind automatically kept track of her progress as she was brought from the Presidio to the portico. She could hear the hubbub of the crowd, the occasional shout of a soldier keeping order. At last, she was shoved into position facing the crowd.
"So this is the fearsome 'Golden Fox?'" a haughty voice said--Ulianov's, deeper than she remembered it. "We thought you'd be taller." A titter of laughter from the assembled nobles and courtiers on the balcony. Suddenly, the hood was removed, and Twirlip squinted against bright sunlight. "Why, it's just a slip of a...girl," the King said, trying to hide the shock of recognition.
Bugger! Twirlip thought. He'd want her silenced before she could expose him.
"Ye will kill the Golden Fox today, 'Your Majesty,'" she said, "Ye have all th' Realm's best assassins an' at least a legion of troops ready t' make sure I don't slip through your fingers again, an' trap anyone who comes to me aid, am I right?" She gave him a knowing smirk. "Ye can kill the Golden Fox, but ye cannae kill th' idea of the Golden Fox," she said, then turned to the crowd. "Whenever the flame of justice burns in your hearts, the fire of outrage against cruelty flares up, and the light of compassion for the oppressed shines forth, you are the Golden Fox. The time will--"
"We have heard enough," the King said. "Executioner, we would now hear her beg for mercy before she finds none." Twirlip thought she could feel the looming presence of the Executioner behind her. She turned to look over her shoulder at the masked figure. He'd grown, and filled out quite a bit.
"Hello Weith," she said, dropping her peasant accent. "Bet you didn't think it would end like this."
Her heart hammered in her chest, and her mind scrambled for some clever last-moment scheme, some way of escape, even though she knew there would be none. All that matters now is how I die, she thought, gathering her resolve for what lie ahead. I have to keep the Men of the Mist from trying anything, so they can live to fight on.
"So...sounds like ye have at least eight men behind me an' eight in front," she said in the peasant patois she'd adopted since her escape from the palace years before. "I guess I should be flattered."
"Shut it," a guard behind her said, giving her a hard shove. She slammed into the guards in front of her and tripped on a stair. Someone behind her grabbed the pipe and wrenched her up, twisting her shoulders. She gritted her teeth to deny them a cry of pain, scrambling to find her feet on the spiral staircase that led up from the dungeons.
"Awww, no need t' be so mean t' poor Twirlip in her last moments o' life," she said in a teasing lilt. "By th' way, how long has the Executioner been at his work? It'd be nice t' get a clean cut by an experienced hand, rather than th' work of an incompetent hack."
"He'll have you squealin' like a piglet soon enough," the guard snapped. "Hope 'e cuts yer tongue out first."
"How long?"
"You really wanna know? Six years he's been cuttin' fer the King. They say he loves his job like no one in the Realm." Twirlip thought she heard an undertone of fear in the guard's voice.
Oh Weith... Twirlip thought. She'd had a different name when they'd pulled capers together, two lonely kids from opposite ends of the social spectrum finding solace in each other's company. Memories started to flood her mind, but she shook her head to clear them. Ulianov will want to hear me beg, she thought, so I'll need to make my words count. The King had been a cruel and capricious boy when she'd been betrothed to him. He was a cruel and capricious young man now. And Weith has--again, she pushed the Executioner from her thoughts so she could focus on what her last words would be.
After a rattling of locks and the opening of a heavy door, the dank air of the dungeon was replaced by the dry air of the Presidio, a fortified guardhouse within the Palace. Twirlip's mind automatically kept track of her progress as she was brought from the Presidio to the portico. She could hear the hubbub of the crowd, the occasional shout of a soldier keeping order. At last, she was shoved into position facing the crowd.
"So this is the fearsome 'Golden Fox?'" a haughty voice said--Ulianov's, deeper than she remembered it. "We thought you'd be taller." A titter of laughter from the assembled nobles and courtiers on the balcony. Suddenly, the hood was removed, and Twirlip squinted against bright sunlight. "Why, it's just a slip of a...girl," the King said, trying to hide the shock of recognition.
Bugger! Twirlip thought. He'd want her silenced before she could expose him.
"Ye will kill the Golden Fox today, 'Your Majesty,'" she said, "Ye have all th' Realm's best assassins an' at least a legion of troops ready t' make sure I don't slip through your fingers again, an' trap anyone who comes to me aid, am I right?" She gave him a knowing smirk. "Ye can kill the Golden Fox, but ye cannae kill th' idea of the Golden Fox," she said, then turned to the crowd. "Whenever the flame of justice burns in your hearts, the fire of outrage against cruelty flares up, and the light of compassion for the oppressed shines forth, you are the Golden Fox. The time will--"
"We have heard enough," the King said. "Executioner, we would now hear her beg for mercy before she finds none." Twirlip thought she could feel the looming presence of the Executioner behind her. She turned to look over her shoulder at the masked figure. He'd grown, and filled out quite a bit.
"Hello Weith," she said, dropping her peasant accent. "Bet you didn't think it would end like this."