[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/HDwS9l5.png[/img] [h2][color=9e0039]Zeldria Miphras[/color][/h2] (Titles and Relations TBD)[/center] Zeldira's stance faltered and her hands flew to cover her mouth as Shadow Worth's lord began his lesson. The Reapers and the guards had been far from gentle with her, but she had at least come to expect that they held respect for their status as Brides and would refrain from seriously harming or disgracing them out of fear of a future husband's wrath. But here, in front of everyone, she watched Sek Leon strip away those assumptions as effortlessly as he tore away his victim's clothing and crush those adorable little lies she'd told herself as nonchalantly as she was sure he'd crushed the other Gem's ribs. She'd convinced herself they'd menace and belittle her, brandish their weapons and threaten violence to keep them in line, but never actually harm them. She'd drawn strength and comfort from that idea, and now it was all falling apart. Of course they would readily harm them; there were dozens of Gems here in the castle, what did they or any man in Drakka care if a few were destroyed before they got to the bidding block? What did it matter if the guards broke a spine or tore out a heart? She wasn't some prized jewel to be handled with care because she was desired. She was just a piece of meat and pretty flesh that could be bruised, battered, and marred at will. And if she ended up beyond salvaging? She'd just be tossed aside, sent to join however many souls, forgotten in the shadow of the peaks. She barely registered what was happening in the hall around her. She started to sink, and then outright fell to her knees, not out of self-correction of her bowing technique, but because the shock had rendered her legs unable to support her. She sank down, her eyes still wide and her mouth still covered, as her gaze locked onto the floor. She was roused from her stupor by a thick-soled boot being pressed into her upper back. [b]"Lower,"[/b] growled one of the guards as he forced her into a more submissive pose. [b]"Now get up, you have places to be. Move!"[/b] The boot released its pressure, but as soon as it had its mate struck her in the side, knocking the wind out of her and sending her sprawling on the stones. Briefly she looked up at the Drakken, but far from any sort of resentment she could only wince and hurry to do what he said. Anything, she told herself, to keep herself from being noticed. Being noticed is what got those other girls beaten. Being noticed is what got the other girls... she shuddered as she remembered the pervasive scent of scorched skin. Her bow had been standing; just how narrowly had she avoided that fate? Moreover, how many more encounters like that would she have to bear? How many [i]could[/i] she bear? Such thoughts ran through her head as the day progressed, unceasing. And try as she might, she found no answers... [hider=Summary] Zel wound up on her knees from the shock and having her naive little expectations shattered, managed to avoid a burning by pure luck. Don't expect that to hold out long... [/hider] [center][h2]----------------------------------------------------------------[/h2][/center] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/M8nuVBP.png[/img] [h2][color=9e0b0f]Wilhelm the Black Blade[/color][/h2] (Titles and Relations TBD)[/center] The craftsmanship was exquisite, Wilhelm thought as the completed and finely polished scabbard was at last presented to him. He eyed it carefully, turning it this way and that, and running his hand along each part of the piece. Not a crack or blemish in sight, and not a drop of dye out of place. He drew the black sword, glistening in the receding sun, and pushed it into the sheath net, to ensure the size was correct. It slid in tightly, requiring pressure but not an inordinate amount, and the length was practically perfect. [color=9e0b0f][b]"Immaculate,"[/b][/color] he remarked, [color=9e0b0f][b]"I do believe I shall be commissioning your services in the future. I pray your skills will maintain this quality then as well."[/b][/color] At that moment a younger Drakken appeared just behind his left shoulder, clad in the livery of Wilhelm's house. He was one of the two servants the Black Blade had brought to the capital with him, and he carried a piece of paper marked with the royal seal. Recognizing it, Wilhelm quickly took the note and read it. He grimaced as he reached the end, but nevertheless folded the paper neatly and tucked it into his pocket. [color=9e0b0f][b]"I seems I shall also require a few of your finest whetstones,"[/b][/color] he said to the shopkeeper as he untied a pouch of money from his belt and laid it on the stand, [color=9e0b0f][b]"Here is your payment. [i]Quickly[/i], there is much for me to do tonight."[/b][/color] A tournament. Of course there was; after all, the cretins all so loved to gaze in awe at those who dared where they lacked the spine. And an invitation had been extended to him. Of course it had; ever since the passing of his most recent bride, his presence here was a foregone conclusion. And who better to display in the pit for the masses than one of Drakka's finest swordsmen? It was all such a farce, but it was still a challenge to combat. And the Old Ways were very clear; any challenge to combat [i]must[/i] be answered. Perhaps, this time, there might be someone worth his time? An entertaining idea, he concluded, if a bit far-fetched as he made his way down the street toward his lodging. He would need to take his time with the sword, tonight; if he was to battle before the whole of Drakka, he would ensure his sword was in its absolute best condition. Anything less would be a disgrace. [hider=Summary] Wilhelm's going to be at home caring for his sword tonight. WHat's the point in kicking ass and taking names if you don't look stylish while doing it? [/hider]