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Story Notes:

Some of the personae, locales, and concepts come from SirPixis' incomparable tales. If you like gentle and romanic tales, I would highly encourage you to check them out. 

All items relevant to SirPixis and his series are used with permission. 

Author's Chapter Notes:

ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT LET'S GET DOWN TO IT

 

 

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The hardest part was getting into the encampment. Under the cover of night, while the moon was hidden behind the clouds and mountains, Litea dodged and darted her way past the half-drunk guards and watchmen. Their victories yesterday and the day prior too had left them cause to celebrate, and despite the battle hardly being won, they had reveled and drank and sang songs of glory they've not yet achieved. Such environs gave Litea the opportunities she needed to sneak in. 

 

She stopped behind a tent, pausing to gather her thoughts and plan her next movement. The black cloak and hood she had used to sneak in wouldn't cover her further in the camp, where torch and firelight would draw suspicion to her- she needed to find something else, something more suitable. 

 

She removed the garment, revealing her body- slim and slender, on the short side, with the undeniably feminine body that would often peg her a girl of sixteen or seventeen (although she was truly nineteen, and the fact that her body didn't match her age only somewhat irked her), with a soft face and medium features, grey-green eyes and a brunette mop of long shaggy hair atop her head.

 

She buried the black cloak under some burlap sacks that once held flour, and then pulled out a small green polished stone that might have been Jade.

 

It was a medium, a conduit for magical power that was drawn about her, and a mark of the mage's science and magic academy in Port Lein, just south of here. 

 

Litea said some incantation, in the rough dialect of her untrained sorcerers mouth and breathed onto the stone. It glowed slightly, imbued with magical force that was now ready to do her bidding. All of the school's mage's had a stone such as this, bonded to them. Without it, she could wreck no major magic- only minor incantations and iterations; flashes of light, pops, noxious sprays, etc.

 

She used the stone to change her clothes, the plain green academy uniform, to a rough spun tunic that matched more in line with what the various guards and workers wore this evening. Setting the stone away, she took a deep breath, realizing just how close she was to achieving her goal. How close to vengeance she was. 

 

It made her stomach aflutter. She was really going to do this. 

 

Another deep breath and she stepped forward, into the mud and deeper into the encampment.

 

Again it dawned on her just how busy the camp was. Victory, both past and impending saturated the air in a thick cloud of heady feel and aerosoled alcohol. Bawdy tales and randy laughter filled the air as well, knights boasting of conquest both martial and sexual. In such a procession of drunkards and revelers, one might've been hard pressed to know where to begin. 

 

Not for her, however- she knew her mark and with what pack she ran.

 

Her quarry was not hard to find- she tugged on the shirt fan nearby worker and asked where the sellswords and knighterrants set their tents and sleep. She was pointed over to a very large fire, were crowds roared in laughter and lutes and stringscops sounded. Funny, she didn't think of that- sellswords and knighterrants are often the boldest of creatures (provided there be gold aplenty), and they often the loudest at encampments. And the most drunk. And ridiculous. 

 

Still, she ought to exercise caution- there was no telling which would party too hard and those who didn't party at all, for if nothing else but the sake of being ready. 

 

Litea hoped her quarry fall in the former tonight.

 

Still, more than like there would be a battle in a few hours, when dawn broke. It would be the final, decisive battle, the last to end the conflict between two petty kingdoms growing in the carcass of a post-invasion Ilica. Such was a common scene, a major battle happening every seemingly four months or so. Some farmers and villages, just trying to get by and bounce back oft found themselves and their families and their farms caught up in a flash that engulfed areas of interest- some of them fertile and giving land, others the ancient seats of houses long dead or scattered, their so-called claimants and heirs bearing no pedigree but a painted shield adorned in the old house colors or sigils (Litea always thought they mysteriously looked freshly painted, despite the claimant boasting they found it in a family crypt- unlikely seeing as how the dead all came up and out under the attempted coup of the entire continent). Still, sensing easy money or bloodlust, people flocked, eager for a quick gold piece or warlord to find renown under. 

 

Litea furrowed, thinking of her objective. One such gold-seeker was Lady Gwyne, a hedge knight of little renown. She was called hedge knight as she had no tent of her own. These knights, while owing no allegiance to any lord, were knights in title, wealthy or not. More often than not, some of the poorer knights moonlighted as bandits and highwaymen, while others stayed true to their code of conduct. Litea was not sure if Gwyne was one of these... But did it matter? Tent or no, sword or no, she was doomed, destined to pay for a crime and slight.

 

The pit in Litea's stomach grew, and her lip trembled, fresh at the memory of the crime. 

 

That bitch, she thought bitterly. She'll pay for what she did.

 

Litea circled round the ring of tents, banners, and bedrolls, searching the banners that hung near cookfires or sets of armor. She sought a particular one, burned into her mind with the fiery brand that could only be imparted by fervent hatred. It was a house between two rivers, on a field of green. By that sign, would she know. By that sigil, Gwyne would be killed. 

 

As far as Litea knew, she had made that sign up. It wasn't in any of the books of heraldry at the academy, and so maybe she simply made it up. But what could it mean? Often, heraldry indicated family status or history, whereas hedge knights might make something up. Maybe it's where the bitch grew up. Litea's own banner, which she only retained by special permission from the academy, was a burning stalk on a gold field. It denoted the harvest, something important in her family's history. It was her mother's banner, and her father's. 

 

And her brother's.  

 

She was so engrossed in remembering, a bitter and hateful and rueful reminiscence that consequently shortened life, that Litea didn't see the group of men at arms walking opposite of her, closing fast. 

 

"You there, get out of our way!" Said a brash, loud, yet unmistakably female voice. Her eyes were almost adjusted to the dark, made difficult only by the torch light blazing. As a result, and by account of the muddy ground that squished and shifted with each footstep, Litea, to her horror, fell into the mud with a tremendous crash in an effort to get out of the way. 

 

It was most unfortunate, as it has rained the day prior, and Litea fell face first in a wet, brown water puddle that splashed up chaotically all around her. More unfortunate still, as the water fell onto the leader of the pack she tried to dodge- all over her pants and boots. 

 

Litea tried desperately to get up, but was helped along by a strongarmed man who gruffly hoisted her up and held her, wet and blinking, in front of the woman.

 

"'Ere she is, lady Gwyne. Ruined your boots, I reckon."

 

Lady Gwyne. 

 

Litea caught her breath in and kept it there, too stunned to speak. She could only stare at the woman, who regarded her callously and scowled at her.

 

"You stupid girl," she barked, looking down at her from muddy boot to wet head. "You splashed me, all over my nice clothes."

 

She nodded dumbly at Gwyne, who shook her head.

 

"Do you know how much these cost me? It took gold. Gold pieces I won fighting for your lord. So, in truth," she said, flashing a toothy grin that caught in the torchlight, "you're disrespecting what I did for you and your kingdom." She let it sink in, those around her, seemingly her entourage or maybe even posse, smiling and chuckling to themselves. The stench of ale was overpowering- enough to no doubt drain the reserves their liege lord and then some. 

 

"So," she barked again, "what are you going to do about? Are you going to pay me back? You don't look like you have any gold... Then again," said Gwyne with a cocked eyebrow and a tired smirk, "you don't look like you've got any wits about you either. Close your damn mouth!"

 

Litea had only then just realized that she was standing agape with her mouth open. And who could blame her? Here was her quarry, all in front of her and no less yelling at her. And she had no idea who Litea was. 

 

A hearty slap to the face brought Litea screaming back to reality. Her cheek burned and stung, bringing back old memories of terrible feelings and discipline from her childhood, not so long ago.

 

As soon as the stars left her eyes and she could see finally, even in the meager light one could see the red flushing Gwyne's face. She was livid! Her blue eyes, shiny like blue lake water in the moonlight, fixed on her a hateful gaze that indicated pure disgust. Not even indignation- just disgust.

 

"You stupid girl. You must be one of Tylar's witless wonders he employs. Huh. Figures." She motioned to the man who was holding her in a lock, and he let go of her. The blood rushed back into her arms, and she nearly tripped again trying to right herself. 

 

"Get up, you idiot. Go find water and a cloth. I'll meet you in a few short minutes at my place, where you can spend the rest of the evening cleaning my clothes off and polishing my boots. Do you know where my bedroll and armor are?" She seemed to slow down her speech- perhaps to accommodate what she thought someone who had a hard time understanding basic words. "It's a big banner; even a moron like you couldn't miss it. It's a big green flag with a house..."

 

"Between two rivers."

 

Gwyne looked aghast for a moment, apparently stunned by the sudden emergence of speech from this girl she thought an idiot. She nodded and squinted at her.

 

"Yes, that, that's right. It's just down the road," she pointed, behind her. And remember- water and a cloth. Do you understand?"

 

Litea thought it best to just nod, and so she did.

 

"Good. And, uh, get to it." Her face hardened slightly again, apparently remembering. "And if you don't, I'll come and find you, and beat you senseless. Got that?" Another nod. "Good."

 

Litea watched them go, walking towards the main tent for perhaps early breakfast. Gwyne had only turned back once to ponder quizzically at the girl she had just taken into her brief service, but only once. Litea had quickly turned away to avoid suspicion, however, and simply walked away in the direction of where Gwyne had pointed. 

 

She could hardly contain herself. Such a close brush with her objective. So close to failure. How differently might that have gone were Litea a bit more talkative? If she had tried to strike out right then and there? Or if Gwyne had decided then and there to add blood to the mud stains on her boots and pants?

 

So many variables. So much room for error. 

 

The brush had put a spark under her- with renewal she walked on, practically jogging over to where the banner was. Determination had filled every crevice of her, and the pit and ice that was her stomach roiled in anticipation. So close.

 

Not within another five minutes had she reached the banner. It was tall, ragtag. The cloth was frayed at the ends and the color, no doubt having been drenched in sunlight on the shaft or on the side of her horse, bleached partially out. Below the banner was a multitude of things, motley of items- a spear, rope, a pile of clothes, a cloth sack. A shield emblazoned with the same markings of her sigil. A bedroll. A small personal fire, no doubt for washing baths or for breakfast. And, delightedly, a set of iron armor, still worn from many days of hard use.

 

This is what she had looked for- the method she would use to extract her revenge. 

 

She removed her medium, the polished stone, from her pocket. She held the piece and closed her eyes, half thinking of the very complex spell she was going to do, half thinking of what was going to transpire soon enough. She smiled to herself. Her discovery of the spell within the older tomes in the library had been fortuitous, almost fantastically perfect in timing. It was a magic way beyond her meager skill set, but the time had been absolutely clear on its utilization. A spell that would warp the fabric of reality, make true the wish of the wielder. A spell that might allow for natural selection to take its course, and the possibility of murder without fear of retaliation possible. 

 

It was a size alteration spell- one that shrank the target down to a size that was a fraction of their normal size. In this case, only an inch or two tall. Barely the size of her thumb!

 

Litea tittered with the idea, the faint sexual lust overcoming her loins. She would not be present on the battlefield, now- but she would set the spell to be times for later on that day, when the battle would be raging. She smiled. All in the heat of battle, Gwyne would find herself suddenly impossibly small amongst the churned mud and viscera. She might drown. She might be trampled to death by a horse or eaten by a bird. Or, she thought, with that faint sexual lust overcoming her again, a fellow soldier might crush her under a boot, or even best, find her- and keep her for their own. 

 

In that thought, Litea almost toyed with the idea of being present at the battle- what better way to extract revenge with her own hands?

 

Or her own feet, rather? Crushing Gwyne would be the highest of pleasures. Of course, she would toy with her first... 

 

She shook her head. No, too risky. Revenge would be hers, but another would be the hand (or foot) that dealt it. 

 

Concentrating once more, Litea focused the energies around her like so many times before, harnessing them into corporeal form, or rather concentrate, into the piece of stone clutched to her breast.

 

It grew warm, and pulsed softly, more so than had ever before, in fact. And that was a problem- such stones, magical and amazing artifacts as they might be, were only training wheels for novice mages. Better, more experienced wizards almost always found power and medium through important, well-traveled, and relevant means. A staff made from the driftwood of a wrecked vessel. A jawbone of an old witch burned at the stake. A jewel from the crown of a deposed king. Things that are made, or rather born, to hold greater magical energy. Especially with so much hatred behind it.

 

As a result, the training wheels broke off, and the spell backfired. 

 

As soon as she had said the last of the incantation, Litea felt it take effect- electricity shot through her arms and chest and legs and only then did feel, or rather know, that something was dead wrong.

 

Her body shook and her stomach roiled- she sudden felt as though she were flying, the ground suddenly feeling very far away, and even the armor, once not so big but slender, seemed to stretch and ripple like a building or one of the towers at the academy. Her inner ear had just cranked out its reckoning when she felt herself falling fast and forward, diving straight for the armor. 

 

In she went, the darkness absolute enveloping her and her mind. For a second, sheer terror and overtaken her and she let her bladder go. Why had she been so foolish as to do this? Everything the masters had taught her, about wisdom and knowledge, the difference between the two- prudence, chastity, moderation. The reason why they made students cook food instead of using magic to will it out of nothingness. All it came flooding back, as she sailed downward into the blackened armor, too late, too late. She had just swallowed, thinking she might die, probably would die, when she smashed her tiny body onto the leather padding within the armor. Padding in name only- it was hard as stone but did not kill her. She instead was knocked out, but continued sliding down, past laces and leather and metal, scratching herself all to hell, and was deep in a dreamless nothingness sleep by the time she fell into and rested in the waist piece. 

 

 

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Gwyne had just cracked open her third boiled egg when the alarm had been sounded. She hurriedly wolfed it down with a bit of salt as she got up, and then took the last draft of her beer before jogging over to her bedroll.

 

Damn it all, she thought angrily to herself, I had just sat down too.

 

It didn't matter- the alarm had come expected (if not a bit earlier than planned) and she was confident that the last skirmish would be over shortly. The opposing warlord had put up a hard fight, but none so much as her own employer. She had done her research carefully, Gwyne had, and she has known what the outcome would be.

 

Always make safe bets, she knew.

 

Still, despite the impending defeat and gold payout, it proved prudent to be cautious. Thusly, she approached every battle as though her life depended on it- and, in a very real sense, it did, along with her livelihood. 

 

The girl who had splashed her clothes had only been a passing memory and annoyance when she arrived. Thinking on it now, she may've been overly harsh on the girl, dimwitted as she was- she frowned at the thought. Was it so necessary to humiliate her like that? Who knew- she supposed it was over now; soon the battle would be over and she would be paid and off. If she did see the girl, she would apologize to her, maybe give her a copper or two- provided, of course, she didn't do anything stupid.

 

The matter settled in her mind, she turned her thoughts to her armor. The leather padding with metal pieces sown into it provided a good protection while offering excellent maneuverability. She slipped out of her outer clothes down to her very basic shirt and trousers, and began to slip them on, tying them piece by piece. 

 

As she slipped her long, bare legs into the pant leg holes, she did not notice another occupant within them- as she pulled them up, turning passenger, a foolish girl who thought she could harness powerful magic, slipped into the back of the bottom half of armor, and wedged, unnoticed, between the two firm but womanly buttocks that were connected to Gwyne, and there stayed as she donned the rest of her armor.

 

Chapter End Notes:

LONG DAYS AND PLEASANT NIGHTS, YE LOWSPEECH BASTARDS

TODAY WE'RE GOING TO BE MAKING A MEAL SO EASY EVEN A SLOW MUTANT COULD MAKE IT, DO YE KENNIT SAI

SERIOUSLY WE'RE JUST HEATING UP SHIT

ITS NOT FUCKIN' ROCKET SURGERY

AS PER THE NATURE OF A CRAY CRAY ASS BATTLEFIELD, FOOD WAS OF A NECESSITY QUICK FAST AND EASY (LIKE YOUR SISTER DURING SPRING BREAK). COMBINE THAT WITH MOST MEDIEVAL MEALS FOR PEASENTS LIKE YOU AND I WERE PRETTY SIMPLE TO BEGIN WITH, AND YOU HAVE SIMPLE, UNCOMPLEX, TASTY ASS FOODS THAT EVEN YOUR BASIC ASS COULD MAKE

SO GRAB YOUR ALE HORNS AND MAILLE

 

LADY GWYNE'S BREAKFAST

 

3 FRESH CHICKEN EGGS
1 HAM STEAK
2-4 SLICES RUSTIC BREAD
A STRONG BEER OF YOUR CHOICE
SALT AND PEPPER TO TASTE

1. HARD BOIL THE EGGS, UNTIL YOU CAN SPIN THEM AROUND AND NOT HAVE THEM DESTABLIZE SO QUICKLY. OR YOU CAN PARBOIL THEM. I CANT FUCKING DO THAT BECAUSE I'M NOT A FUCKING WIZARD

2. FRY THE HAM IN A BIT OF OIL UNTIL FULLY COOKED. ITS YOUR OWN FAULT IF YOUR DUMBASS GET TRICHANOSIS. IF YOU START SHITTING BLOOD YOU'LL KNOW YOU FUCKED UP

3. TOAST THE BREAD OVER A FLAME UNTIL NICE AND BROWNED. FLOPPY BREAD IS SAD BREAD

4. PUT ALL THAT SHIT ON A PLATE

5. SALT AND PEPPER THE FUCK OUT OF IT (OR TO TASTE IDGAF)

6. FINISH YOUR BEER AND THEN GO OUT AND FIGHT FOR YOUR LORD AND LIEGE

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