Thread: The Masked City (Sylvene & Erebus)

The Masked City of Tera. A fable, a legend and standing tall before her. Cloaked in plain travelers garb, most of the nomad's lower face was swathed in cloth to protect her from the sun. Her hood was pulled low, the shadows meeting at the edges to hide her appearance from bloodthirsty wanderers. Her eyes peered up from beneath her dusty hood, her gaze rising, climbing until the harsh glare of the sun blinded her. She lowered her gaze to the ever growing crowd amassed outside the heavy gates. Everyone was here, some cradling babes swaddled in nothing but ribbons. She spied a few caravans decorated in symbols. One bore a thin crane woven with stitched lotuses a horned creature from the deep seas swam on a ripped mat of blue a flame sparked from a claw, a serpent with legs danced on green. From lands so far away, she wondered why they would brave the unrelenting desert in the first place. They would never get in. Not all of them. Not with their coins nor with their meager belongings. The nomad knew the truly desperate would offer quite literally everything - their children, their freedom, for a chance at sanctuary. She pursed her lips, banishing those thoughts to the wind. She continued to scan the walls. A tall man stood apart from the crowd. He stank of superiority, of privilege and disdain. The nomad eyed him carefully. He had no qualms showing off his status, whatever it was, and it was clear to her that he did not like what he saw. He took stock of the mob like one might with grazing cattle. But most importantly, his coin purse looked fat and full and her's lay somewhere buried deep in the desert. When the gates swung open, the storm began. Everything moved at once and the sands shifted and rumbled beneath the pounding feet. There were papers flying, documents for admission and valuable belongings being flaunted but nobody was getting in. It seemed they knew better than to force their way into the city. The noise was almost deafening, the rabble clamoring around and over each other until the trumpets and the appearance of the masked guards effectively silenced the commotion. It seemed the man's self-importance was warranted as he was marched straight into the city. The guards didn't even flinch or look toward the wide-eyed refugees and once they disappeared back through the doors, then began the inspection. The nomad lingered on the outside, scuffing the sand childishly, her mind was distant and on the man now deep in the city. He was here for something and she'd heard the soldier. An audience with the Queen herself. Of course, the woman was as mysterious as her city, if not more so. Whispers of her beauty counteracted the harsh laughter of the rumors that she kept herself young by drinking the blood of virgin girls. Of course, the nomad herself had snorted at such barbaric claims - that sort of magic was preposterous and something born from fairy tales. But she wanted to meet the Queen, for reasons kept close to her heart. It was quiet amidst the thunder of sound, but she heard it. Muffled noises and a solid thump. The nomad turned toward the east side of the wall, catching the tail end of a guard's overcoat. Walking over, she stopped a few feet from the lump of a person. The man had been stripped of his clothes and purse and without it, he looked weak small and insignificant. He was huddled up and shivering, his goatee coated in sand. The refugees paid little attention to the man left with nothing. He was one of them now, and he'd find no mercy from them nor from the harsh heat. He would die in a matter of hours, of that she was sure. Still, she walked to him, prodding his body with her thick boot. The man flinched and looked at her, his eyes wide. He groaned. You met with her? Another groan. The Masked Queen? She prompted. The man nodded weakly so the nomad squatted. She hoped he could talk for she had no water to spare. What did she look like? He remained quiet, and the nomad sighed. She pulled the cloth away from her mouth and threw back her hood, wincing as the sun began to beat down on her exposed skin. A slight wind ruffled through her hair streaked with white but all the man could do was stare, not at her hair, but at her face. On the left half of her face, twin rivers of ink twisted down from beneath her eye, trickling all the way down to her neck, tapering into sharp points. Even so, it was not the tattoos but her eye. It was a pure, milky white and jagged scars could be seen just beneath the black ink. Her other eye was a dark brown and it was with this eye did she pin a careful glance on the man. See no evil, she shrugged. Hear no evil, speak no evil. At that, the man began to speak, recounting his brief visit with the Queen, never taking his eyes off her own blind one. When he was done and there was nothing else left for the man to say, she stood. Shrugging apologetically, she pulled her hood up and her cloak back around her face, his cries landing on deaf ears as she trudged away, her hands deep in her satchel. A second thought and she threw him her flask. There was next to no water left, but it was the most she could do for him now. The Queen, she heard, brooked no mercy for her victims. With a furrowed brow, she pulled her lower lip between her teeth in quiet contemplation. She knew that the gates would not be open for much longer. Only a handful of refugees would be allowed in and even then, those with carts and wealth, not families, would be invited into the City built on blood and shadows. With her mind made, she withdrew something from her pouch. A tarnished half-mask, surprisingly ornate for something so plain. She fitted it over the bridge of her nose and took in a deep breath. Over head, the vultures began to hiss.