Erian the Swordmaster

The line of pine trees formed a perfect horizon line of mixed forest green swaying gently back and forth in the late afternoon breeze. The cloud-covered sky hung as beautiful smooth backdrop of grays and blues, with frosty white clouds dotting its surface. They drifted smoothly by, like heralds of winter for all to see.
The wind gusted a little harder as if asking just as equal acknowledgement in her mind as the cloud covered sky. It held the chill of late fall and the smell of the snow soon to come. The fallen leaves danced in its embrace across the ground. She cherished it’s sound as it whispered threw her hair. This and the dancing leaves were pleasant songs to her heart.

The young woman leaned back atop the white marble bolder she was presently occupying, starring up at the last few green leaves on the tree branches above her. The darkly painted sky outlined them perfectly. The wind tugged at them as if urging them to fall to earth to join their dancing brethren. The cool marble beneath her back reminded her uncomfortably of her recently acquired sore muscles. She sighed heavily, wishing the moment could last a little longer. This was always her favorite time of year.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Well…. the white stone would not be turning into a valiant steed to whisk her away any time soon, so she might as well get on with it.
Erian Kitey sat up and viewed the carnage of bodies strewn about the landscape. Orange coats of the Grand Duke’s guards, now stained crimson in various places on their personages, littered the ground. Some lay at odd angles where they’d fallen, or lay near the severed limbs of their bodies. It was a complete and utterly nasty mess, and her sword glowed the same bloody red as the now dead.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

She was going to have a hell of a time explaining this to Kiroa. She actually would’ve preferred to have gone and told the Grand Duke in person, and explained to him that she had just put to rest eight of his elite guards.

Hah. Elite indeed. Well they’d had it coming to them.

First rule. Never try to corner a Kitey. Worse, never think you’ve succeeded in doing so, for they fought like loins spawned from hell and back.

They’d been over confident and stupid; believing that because they wore those ridiculous uniforms (what had possessed the Duke to use orange anyway?) they were invincible. That had made them over confident. Not believing even the lesser outrageous stories, songs, or even rumors they MUST have heard about her, was stupid.
They’d approached her with jeering taunts of the famous swordswoman ‘Erian Kitey’. The head that had taunted her the most, that of the guards captain, now lay five feet from his now lifeless body.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Erian leaped lithely from the bolder, landing without so much as a soft crunch of earth underneath her boots. Pretty wasn’t a word one would use to describe Erian Kitey. utterly-heart retching she’d been called by Bard Sortell. Can make a man soul-sick with longing was a popular one from Lashof’s epic poem ‘The Blade Heart”, or a face-like- the-clouds been kissed by the setting sun, breath-taking and never repeated. Erian found that one particularly long winded. Personally she preferred the ballads written about her skill with her sword not her face or body. Apparently the guards had wanted to compare the more lurid ballads to the real thing. Too bad they had to find that the few of her sword were more accurately sung.

Erian Kitey sighed petulantly. Ah well. Kiroa wouldn’t stay angry forever. And this wasn’t nearly as bad as the time…Well never mind. Best not to mention that in her defense, or that other time in Donacarta, or Naliam City, or….no, none of those would do for either. She leaned forward and proceeded to wipe her blade clean on one of the soldier’s uniforms. Disgusting color she thought again. It wasn’t even a dignified orange, She thought of the mud of the clay hills of Camburra that were used to make the most unique pottery this side of the Bradee mountains. The clay was a deep, almost rust colored orange. If only the Duke had chosen that color. But no this was the degrading, happy-go-lucky orange that bakers made candied fruit slices for children out of. The only admirable thing about them, which Kiroa had pointed out, was that you could spot them from a mile away, easily. Chock up another round of points for the Duke’s intelligence alright. The uniforms neared screamed, ‘Hey come stick me with the pointy end now!’ Erian snorted in disgust, as she slid the long blade of her sword back into its sheath strapped to her back. The steal coldly reflected the darkening sky, and hissed as it slid into it’s casing, as if in warning to those that had any further ideas of attack.

The blade, of one would call it so, for it was more apart of Erian that the clothes she wore, was a thing of legend along with it’s wielder. There were a number of other bad poems and songs written about the sword, but none were even close to it’s true origin. Some say that Erian had killed an evil wizard for it. Others said that it had been one of the fangs of a giant sea-creature that she’d wrestled to the bottom of the sea and pulled it from it’s gapping jaws. Erian had laughed for days after hearing that one. Actually she had received the blade by much more simple means than that. Well…The truth was, she didn’t really know where the blade had come from, only that it had been with her ever since she could remember, and that was the way it was going to stay.

It wasn’t the most marvelous thing to look at truly. Fancier, more lofty blades (Erian called them gaudy) were carried by kings and nobles. But Erian considered such swords worthless since they almost never left their scabbards. She was glad that her hilt wasn’t decorated in anything such a jewels or such nonsense. She’d more likely cut herself on one of them as anything else. The only very striking thing about the sword was it’s color, blue black of ancient Varishian steel, no longer mined. Few swords of such exquisitely strong steel still existed, and Erian’s was one of them. But ornamented or not, no one could deny that the blade had an essence that was an extension of Erian. Those lucky enough to have encountered and escaped it’s ferocity lived to tell that they would still hear it hiss from the scabbard for the rest of their days, and to tell of it made their skin crawl. But on Erian’s back all that was was a black polished leather scabbard, decorated in tooled silver of the Kitey name at both ends, with a silver hilt of a sword emerging at one end, with hand guards of silver.