Amaranth and Nightshade

Amaranth and Nightshade

By Arukan

Bleached stone, crossing the thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of year’s age and grandeur, painted across the scenery, marking the blue sky like the outstretched hands of a child wishing to grasp the mother clouds. Alabaster shone with scorching heat, blinding the eye which had stayed too long inside and ventured out too hastily. Surrounding the entire city it gleamed and glowed, the capital was bathed in that bloom, that terrific blaze symbolized enchantment and the glint of polished steel.

In the bazaar, amongst the trees and fountain in the square, vendors peddled their wares with great zeal. Merchants held up swords, beckoning at anyone with even a hint of ability or armor, claiming their deals the best, claiming the best quality. Other merchants were slinging potions, bottles of shapes innumerable and effects nigh uncountable. They tried to pass off even the simplest of brews as miracle elixirs and panacea, though far from it. Discerning customers shunned them for only the noblest looking sellers, but others flocked and gathered, hoping to get their hands on the “number one best bargains.”

Through the mire of folks, flocking like sheep, and the frugal spirits, parting not with even a penny, there were those actually there for supplies. Most in their younger teens to middle teens, followed pensively by their mentors or parents, looking amongst the potations and stuffs for the highest quality they could afford. Swords, pauldrons, cauldrons, cuirasses, greaves, potions, wands, books, boots and tomes of eldritch origin, stacks and reeves of parchment, pens and charcoal pencils, quills and bound notebooks, there were shields and shin guards, robes, chapeaus, helms, and bracers as well, almost too many things.

The milling of these purchasing people was ordinary every year at this time. It was the season when the best and brightest were received into the schools, and no school was as illustrious as the one that called the capital city its home. The Institute for Sword and Spell of Ivory City, or Issisc University as many called it, was a place of learning and growth that existed nowhere else on the entire planet. Chellsworth Spellsword, and Orland Institute were celebrated in their own right, but not one of their alumni would even try to doubt the skill, adeptness, or money one would need to attend Issisc.

Issisc was the University that all the best mages and noble knights wished to attend. To even stand in the halls of, the smell of sword and text wafting through the giant doors of oaken cherry. Monolithic, it towered in the center of the city, a nexus of government, learning, and instruction, all in one. The gates raised higher than even the city walls, made of an alabaster whiter and more sophisticated than even those that protected the city wall. Built like a mountain, the limestone rock towered into the sky, so high it was deemed only magic could be responsible for such structural integrity.

The spire itself gashed into the blue, cutting through the clouds, overlooking as much of the planet as any lookout point could, towering over even the biggest and tallest of cliffs and peaks. None could challenge the ascent, and none would dare. The establishment of the school had mothered the Ivory City, and the school in turn was mothered by the city, it’s population and size exploding exponentially, rising toward the sun faster than the building itself. But none of that seemed to matter to one student.

She walked by the aisles, dragging her hands on the items as she did, ignoring the ardor and scolding of the shopkeepers who extolled the virtues of keeping one’s hands to themselves. Clad, was she, in a black school robe, burgundy accents lit it up like fire at the waist and neck, and feet, and hands. The hood was lowered, cherry hair spilling all around, haphazardly, bangs, and sides ignoring the pigtails and covering face and shoulders. Her figure was not slim, nor fit; it was, in fact, quite the opposite. A gentle curve defined her Rubenesque shape; it ran from nape to tummy, then down to hips and thighs, finally to obscured feet. Draped in the robe, she felt hidden well enough.

Continuing to walk along the things in the crowd, a figure shadowed her, it stood almost a foot above her, making over six feet easily, and its body seemed to be chiseled of the very earth. Clothed in white robes, he would very easily be mistaken for the ivory walls of the city’s namesake. The features of his grayed, lined, and thoroughly aged face made shadows easily, looking as though the darkness of wear had clung to him, aided by his head being pointed downward at the absentminded child below him.

“Merady, show a little spirit, you’re more than fortunate that our family name has afforded you entrance into Issisc, the graduating place of our family for over two millennia,” the old man spoke like stone thrown at the ground, clear and impacting.

She ignored him, continuing to walk about, her body weaving around the people scattered like discarded junk, throughout the road and sides of the square.

“Merady, listen to me young lady, I’m not fooling around, not in the least bit,”

The girl gave in, turning and looking up, her face still screwed up in defiant disinterest, but she gave the elderly chap the benefit of the doubt and would not question his seriousness. She shrugged a little as if to say she didn’t care, without actually saying it. The point was taken, but not well.

“Merady, you’re driving me to wit’s end, you’re a good student, but your attitude needs much improvement, I beg your indulgence for spoiling you,”

She but rolled her eyes and tried to turn around, only to find a large hand clasp her shoulder and keep her facing forward.

“Issisc is no joke, young lady, you will learn not only “magic” there, you’ll learn manners, something they pride themselves so well on it’s in the…”

She cut him off.

“…it’s in the creed…” she assumed a catty, mimicking tone, “…Manners, Sophistication, and Dedication….right?”

Taken aback a bit by her arrogance the old man rested his hand on her shoulder, and could only shake his head.

“Exactly,” he spoke at last, composing himself. “And you will find it painful; to say the least, to lose your manners at Issisc, and maybe you’ll wish I’d spent more time preening your manners rather than magical ability,”

Rolling her eyes again, Merady turned around, getting out of her grandfather’s grip, and continued along the rows of things, finally reaching the armory stalls. There she stopped and looked over the swords, touching the blades when the shopkeeper was too busy looking over this and that to carefully inspect her inspecting his artisanship.

The armor too was of exquisite make, oiled and shined so that it rivaled the city’s splendor, and would suit any swordsman, or woman, who donned it. Alongside her, customers buying up every little thing they could get their greedy hands on. Soon she was robbed of her ability to examine that particular breastplate. Immediately however, her eyes were transfixed on another suit of armor.

The inlays were garnet, and coursing rivers of scarlet streaked it. Any cloth was amaranth in color, as blood had dyed it that gorgeous hue. It was female armor, most definitely; bosom space was distended and separated in such a way that would lift, accentuate, and support the weight of the female form inside it. The armored areas at the chest and legs were hammered clean and thin, to allow the best movement and most protection. Chain mail, of bloodsteel weave, lined the areas where armor did not, which could sit, itself, under the tunic of red that hung along with it.

The pauldrons were of that same glowing gray steel, seemingly silver in the direct noon light, the red outlines at the hinges and lower ridges of the plate shimmered still, even though partially shadowed. Alongside them, sitting on the stood beneath the suit there were the gauntlets, made of the finest and reddest bloodsteel that Merady had ever cast her eyes on. Their construction was masterwork, or better, and would outclass any common piece on the battlefield. The fingers were created with such precision that it had six hinges, rather than three for each knuckle, to ensure a finger could move in all three-hundred and sixty degrees of motion. The palms were gilded in that same chain mail from the upper portions, protecting the softer parts of the palm from those who would slash and hack a hand clear off.

The helm did little to obscure or mar the beauty that would be the face of its owner, but offered all of the amenities a helmet needed, the proper shape, a thick and sturdy curve, and even padding on the inside, to cushion the head against even the sternest and rocking of blows. Like the cuirass and gauntlets, the passionate poppy-painted patterns perused the length of the helm, decorating it in a way that looked as though demons had tattooed it in utterly undying flames. Mesmerizing to the point that even Merady wished she could see if the very earth changed its vantage when one’s head was inside that helmet.

There were no greaves, another thing that made Merady sure it was a female set of armor, instead a pair of thick, sheer tights hung near the tunic. Merady thought this a bit haughty, to value the shape of the female legs over the importance for that area to be armored, but dismissed it, since the beauty of it all was so enthralling. Below the gloves sat the boots, and their shape again regaled the idea of the female body, there was a slight incline on them, and they tapered at the foot, shaped too delicately for the male hooves, only a female paw would slip into the slender form of the boot. The same motif was employed here, crimson and glowing silver, shining like errant rays of light through the window in the early hours of the morning, hidden in the shade that was unable to keep it’s shine from coming forth like the orb of burning gas in the sky.

Merady bore her glance into it for so long that a good portion of all the store browsers had up and left after their purchases or after deciding that there was nothing there for them. Merady’s gaze stayed locked until the armor was being removed. Frantic at the this sudden change of scenery, Merady watched the hands of the smith purloin her eye candy. Her eyes followed his hands as he wrapped up each piece and put it away, wrapping up the pieces one by one, much to the dismay of Merady, who had nigh idolized the suit before it was so rudely snapped up from in front of her. She spent so long afterwards just remaking on the salesman in her mind that her neck had not turned to even see who purchased the armor, though it mattered little at this point.

Her grandfather was nowhere in sight, so Merady simply perambulated, as it was her last night home, her last night at the manor in the Central City Complex, a giant interwoven network of manors and chateaus that were carved into the giant rock face of a limestone cavern system that had been inhabited since the ancient days of yore. She was a little melancholy, deep inside, to know that she would no longer wake to her grandfather’s teachings, or her mother’s cooking, or to watch her father and uncle spar in the upper levels of the mansion, but she shook those thoughts. Finally she was going to be on her own, able to do what she wanted, when she wanted, and with whom she wanted, finally she could taste the fresh air, and it was swept on the winds that blew from the gates of Issisc.

Settling near the fountain was where Merady found herself, just browsing past the people and the shops that stood in her vicinity. People-watching was something she had become quite adept in, ever since she didn’t have friends, or learn how to play. It was odd, but comforting that she was in her own little world, closed off from those that would intrude or misconstrued, so it was the way she liked it, and nothing better was there than sitting at the fountain and ignoring the noise so she could analyze each and every passerby. Her gazed pierced through flesh and bone, looking around, just purveying all of the action and interactions that were going on in the cloud of human energy around them.

With all of this watching, and all of that walking from before, it was not long until there was a soft, gurgling outcry from Merady’s belly. She held it, blushing deeply, though no one was around. Mouth watering a little and she knew it was time to get some food in her for lunch. Her body tensed, wondering where she should go to fill the rumbling in her gullet. But she knew it was better off getting up to find some place than sitting and suffering in the sun and hunger that was covering her. The stalls with food were in the back of the bazaar, and so crowded that one could barely inch in to see that they were indeed selling food and not some top, new, hocus-pocus elixir of some sort. She could smell the tender meats and veggies that were kabobbed and ready to eat, or the delicate aroma of freshly roasted yams in their foil wrapping. She watered at pungently scented grilled corn with flavored, warm butter, and gurgled with utter delight at the differently pickled pickles of spicy, sweet, and even sour varieties.

Merady felt her body shake the moment she was within arms length of all of that food. She felt a wave of pleasant, yet nerve-wracking, hunger pass over her once more, washing over her body like a wave at the shore. She was so unsure of what to pick. And who could be?! There was so much, too much for any gourmand of her renown, or she’d like to think, at least. With all of these choices swirling around in her head, Merady was pushed aside by a rotund, nigh porcine woman, who was eager to get her food and run. The belligerence of this woman severely angered Merady, who immediately opened her mouth.

“You fat cow, what do you think you are doing pushing me around?!”

The woman didn’t even turn around; she was too busy with getting a troughful of items to shovel into her maw, from what Merady could glean.

“I said, what do YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, YOU ROUND WITCH?!” Merady blared in her loudest and angriest voice.

The woman turned around now, looking as though she’d been dealt a dire wound.

“And just who are you talking to you little whelp?” the old woman, face looking more like a leather bag than a visage, with a gaping mouth smeared with lipstick globed on, as though it would attract anything more than buzzards to it.

“Yeah, to you, you cut me in line!”

“You were just standing there…..”

Merady cut the woman off before she could even begin to finish.

“I was pondering what I wanted, and now you’ve gone and taken it all!”

This set the old round woman off, she looked as though lava had filled her veins, turning them the brightest of puce, to the point where her face resembled a rotted apple, left out in the scorch of the sun. She had already ignored the fact that her food had been collected for her; Merady was now her sole concern.

“Well, I’ll teach you to disrespect your elders!” the woman threatened, raising her hand high above her head, for a moment the idea of being struck dawned on Merady.

The teen’s eyes widened to the size of the sun, reflecting its glow high in the sky above her. The mirror image of that descending arm seemed to still itself, so slowly moving that time was altered drastically. Merady was standing in the path of a freight train, with the inability to move. She was going to be struck; SHE was going to be struck…

There was a sudden voice that reanimated time itself.

“I’m sorry for my granddaughter’s rudeness, madam.”

Merady’s grandfather had “acquired” the hand of the accosting woman, restraining it with mild tension obvious through how her hand shook, tearing at the reigns to be free. Eventually she gave it up, took her food, and turned around, leaving without as much as a haughty scoff.

Feeling saved, Merady let her guard down for just a moment. Her grandfather rested his hand on her shoulder, and her laxness became apparent, literally folding onto herself a little and sighing a sigh of relief. That was when the sturdy hand caught the hind of her back. It was so sudden, and so stark, stinging right to her tail. Merady jumped forward, caught by her grandfather’s other arm, as to keep her from bounding into the crowd of people ahead of them.

“What was that for?!” cried Merady, clutching her bottom to avoid further damage to her posterior.

“What do you think it was for? I was just over on the other side of the food stand, I heard your entire conversation, and it was handled much less than lady-like. Consider that a warning,”

Her grandfather left her side again, against what could be considered his better judgment on the matter. As he walked away, Merady crossed her arms and looked to the side with a fair bit of pride.

“Saves me from being hit so he can hit me himself?! What nerve he has, humph!”