((OOC- I thought it would be fun to do something similar to what Daerundros did :p So in this scenario, Vardar is in the south, she’s basically a mercenary and Minyelaire had left her to do something (haven’t really thought about what) about 100 years previous(not long after the beginning of the fourth age.)
This was very fun to write- I don’t usually write things like this :) ))
**Please be warned that there is some level or violence in this story, it's a battle scene after all- oh and 'it may describe some scenes that readers may find disturbing' :P**
The grass is green, covered in patches of red here and there. Screams can be heard somewhere in the near distance, the angered battle cries of peasant farmers, too weak and lacking in skill to stand a chance against a skilled swordsman.
Groans can be heard from within the crowds of farmers and skilled warriors; men dying, men crying for their wives, their daughters, their mothers… Fathers… Sons…
Vardarianna pulls her dagger from within one of those poor, near defenceless foes. Grimacing but visibly feeling no remorse for the poor man.
The now defeated man lay still, his eyes locked in an eternal stare toward the luminescent blue skies. Skies so clear and blue that they contrast with the redness of the blood soaked battle field below.
Then, Vardarianna can hear heavy and careless footsteps behind her, a man, running. She ducks and swings around, kicking out with her right foot. The man falls, he falls onto Vardarianna’s ready and eager dagger.
Grimacing, she pushes the man backward, he falls with a loud thud onto the already blood soaked earth.
For weeks now, Vardarianna has been working as a sort of hired warrior for some insignificant and merciless warlord. The work had been long and hard, many poor innocent men had died, protecting their families and their homes against this army of skilled and ever blood thirsty warriors.
After the battle, after one more town had been destroyed and burned to the ground, the only survivors were generally the younger women and some of the children- these were for the warlord to sell. But with some children, those young enough, they were to be taken into warrior families and trained to become merciless killers.
Sighing, all killing done, Vardariana walks into her makeshift tent. At the far end is a bed, comfortable enough for one used to hard ground. A small table for eating and a stall, chipped and partially burnt; likely taken from the town that she had just helped to conquer.
She sits, staring almost as though in a trance at the wooden table. She examines the surface for a moment. In the corner some writing- a language unknown to her, likely the language of the desert people.
Her arms, her legs, her face… Everything is covered in blood… She reaches up and covers her eyes for a moment. Crying loudly; a prolonged and pained cry. If she had not spent one hundred years shedding tears, she would be doing so now- but so many years of crying have hardened her. Pain, grief, death- she knows nothing but pain and death.
She whispers, barely audible ‘Minyelaire…’
A call from outside, laughter and then a scream. She scowls, snarling almost. Then, getting up, she storms from her tent, only to see a crowd of men and a woman- the girl has long red hair and blue eyes… Fine features. For moment, a brief and agonising moment, Vardarianna swore that she saw the elf, Minyelaire standing before her, bound like an animal.
‘What is this?’ She asks, her voice terse, angered. The men stop laughing and the woman falls to her knees, looking up to Vardarianna pleadingly.
‘Just a bit of fun…’ A man steps forward, his eyes nervous, he swallows hard, audibly.
‘Hmmm?’ She tilts her head, her eyes alight with anger. ‘What have I told you about playing with the merchandise?’ She looks down to the woman, on her face is a large bruise. ‘You’ve damaged it.’
‘No!’ The man protests. ‘Not me, must have been someone else!’ He moves backward now, trying to take shelter within the crowd of warriors, but another man behind him pushes him forward.
Vardarianna laughs. She does not laugh because she finds his words funny. No, she laughs because she knows that she will take joy in what she is about to do.
The man whimpers, moving a clumsy and slow hand toward his blade. Though the warrioress is too fast for the man; within moments she has danced toward him, light feet barely making a sound upon the earth and quickly her blade is at his throat. But just as quick- the world is blackness for him; his last thoughts are of the coldness of the dry earth against his almost numb flesh.
Vardarianna spins about, regarding the circle of men surrounding her. ‘No damaging the merchandise!’ She shouts. The men nod. All fear her and her unusual skill within battle- she is quick and nimble; like a shadow almost unseen- all fear her to be some form of warrior sorceress and all know to heed her word.
Quickly, with a hard stare from the warrioress, the men disperse. Leaving her to stand beside the slave girl.
Vardarianna looks down at the woman for a moment. The slave is beautiful, her hair is red… Again, very briefly, Vardarianna could swear that she saw the elf maiden in the woman’s features.
The slave girl says something in a language that the warrioress does not understand. Though Vardar can see gratitude in the girl’s features.
‘Do not thank me…’ She snarls, leaning down to peer at the woman for a moment and then swiftly, she brings her blade up and in the blink of an eye she ends the maiden’s life.
‘You left me…’Vardarianna cries, holding the girl for a moment, within her arms, she sheds tears for the first time in nearly a decade and then stands up and stalks toward her tent, leaving two bodies in her wake.
Before entering her tent, she turns to the stars, her cheeks glistening with tears. She thinks of the maiden Minyelaire… Vardarianna had trusted the elf and cared for her as though a soul mate, they were like sisters, mother and daughter, best friends, bound by a link incomprehensible.
‘I will kill you if you ever return…’ She shouts. ‘I’ll kill you!’ Love turned to hate, hate turned to bitterness, the maiden’s very spirits had shrivelled long ago- she is an empty blood thirsty husk.
Men stop to stare at her, wide eyed. Even slaves almost pause to look at her, but they know better; the warrioress is always dangerous when she is in one of these moods.
