Jara’din’isk, 8th day of the month of Firi, 120th year Post Migration.
Fathomless green eyes blazed out of the mirror. They had long been compared to soft glades and verdant grass, but currently, they were more reminiscent of an unquenchable forest fire, sparking and flaring with restive energy. Isana’ta’meraska, sole daughter and heir to Shilansa’ta’meraska, late formidable leader of the warrior Itraski, softly bit out every curse that she knew and some that were created in the frenzy of sheer frustration that was running through her. It was a regular morning ritual that she went through, ever since the night she had realized the mantle she must needs wear to please her father, the indomitable warrior Inserin’ta’shkersa. It was no easy feat.
It was an undeniable fact that the Itraska were a warrior people who followed a resolute matriarchal structure. It was also commonly acknowledged that their leaders were usually women endowed with the sharpest honed battle-skills as well as the well-trained acumen of brilliant leaders. Yet, the very same women themselves had, at the dawn of the Itraska, laid down laws wherein Itraski females were to walk around garbed in heavy divided skirts, with long tunics reaching well below the buttocks, in order to appear more seemly to the non-Itraskis of their world. Flashy, tight jewelry, which would not be caught by a flying sword or a thrust spear, had been added in somewhere along the way. Her mother, ‘Lansa, the late great sword of the tribes, had dressed flawlessly in Itraski fashion and actually complained about being unable to wear loose jewelry and more layers!
The moment ‘Sana reached puberty, from which time it had been apparent to the oldest and most sight-crippled of the lot that her features were going to mimic ‘Lansa’s right down to the off center dimple and clefted, stubborn chin, there had been a drastic change in her father’s behavior. ‘Lansa, she who had scythed through an army with just 7 outriders and come out more alive than ever, had contentedly breathed her last at the birthing bed, after fighting through a painful pregnancy and being furiously greeted by a tiny, vociferous, red-faced lass who was refusing emphatically, with heaving limbs, to leave the sanctuary of her mother’s womb. ‘Serin, of the great lineage of the Shkersa maidens, was heart-broken but doggedly set aside his depression and turned to providing paternal support for a growing child. When faced with a miniature ‘Lansa, however, he began to withdraw into a silent shell which slowly started turning him from a vibrant warrior into a stone-faced loner.
One of his closest friends and advisers, on seeing the deteriorating situation, sat the then fourteen year old Isana down and listed the bare bones out for her. The precocious teenager, on that day, made a decision which lasted till this morning. She eschewed the feminine dresses of her community and the frivolous accessories, and started favoring the more austere dress code of the men, wearing breeches and short tunics of sober colours, pulling her luxurious auburn tresses into tight braids which left her scalp feeling extra-sensitive, and completely setting aside all jewelry except for the earrings that proclaimed her stature of heiress to the community.
This change successfully put a period to her father’s deterioration. He seemed more than happy to regard her as a boy. However, the tribal elders and most of the other members of the community made it clear through both speech and behaviour that this mode of dress was not acceptable to them. Friction and mental frustration had become close companions to ‘Sana ever since.
This morning, the plan was to patrol the norther border where there had an increasing number of skirmishes with the Felakis, a nomadic tribe who added to their numbers by kidnapping defenseless children and spelling them into submission.
Her guirardska today would be composed of 12 outriders, all of whom were emphatically vocal in their denunciation of her choice of dress. It did not matter to them that the Itraska were one of the rare communities which allowed free individual choice in matters of dress and lifestyle. There were as many female pairings as male in their society, wherein many of the women chose to dress in a more masculine fashion. It frustrated her that she should be so singled out for this criticism, especially when, at first, it had been practically forced on her. Of course, with time, she had come to appreciate the freedom of this dress style and now actively favored this over the more feminine trappings.
Waking up to the knowledge that, this day, she would be treated to various treatises of ‘Lansa’s dressing skills, made riding with this guirardska an exercise in frustration. She would be patiently and repeatedly condescended to and explained as to how she was bringing shame to the Itraska as their warrior women always dressed in the highest of fashions and did not deign to display their assets to the world at large. She was proud of her assets, curse them all! If she chose to display herself, she would, and if this brought some peace to her father’s withered heart, then she would do so with as much pride as the most bedecked of brides!
With this thought girding her loins, ‘Sana deftly tied off her last braid and set off in a light run to the stables. Her tight breeches displayed the beautiful play of muscle as her lope lengthened across the field. She greeted her disapproving, already mounted, guirardska with a quiet smile and hardly a hitch in her breath, and smoothly gained Dani’s back, ignoring the stable hand ready to provide her aid.
Without a single word, the group of thirteen riders, turned their horses’ noses into the wind and cantered off in tight formation. Any observers on the field would have appreciated the picture of disciplined grace as they slowly increased their mounts’ paces until they had reached a steady gallop without losing formation. The Itraskis were proud of their horsemanship and took great pains to display it wherever possible, even if the only eyes watching were their own.
They reached the northern border and wheeled off into groups of twos and threes and set off in an organized patrol. The border was a capricious entity and fluctuated with the feeble whims of the various herds that roamed this lush grassland. ‘Sana, partnered after many weeks, with Derin’ta’ginska, was pleased with her silent companion. They settled into a comfortable trot. She settled herself into a calm, observant state and let her thoughts drift. A sudden outbreak of sound off to the east drove the two of them into a gallop. Derin called alert with his horn, and there was a sudden barrage of horn blasts as the others in the guirardska raced toward them. They reached a trough in the landscape where a group of about fifteen Felakis were harrying about 20 youngsters in a tight pack. Letting out a furious bellow, ‘Sana lead the guirardska into a sharp strike against the kidnappers.
“‘Mina, lead left!” A group of three, sleekly flew out of formation and bracketed the Felakis on the left.
“‘Ferin, strike straight! ‘Derin, to me!” And the two groups clashed, each desperately trying to keep the sharp steel from injuring any of the youngsters.
One of the Felakis, a swarthy little man, tried to use a small shepherdess as a shield, his own shield-brother drove his light shield-sword into the coward’s heart. This land was rough, but youngsters were prized in all the societies.
‘Sana let the adrenaline rush carry her into an awareness-heightened state. An ululating cry escaped her lips as she engaged first one, then another, of the Felakis, trusting in ‘Derin to guard her blind side. A furious shout let her know that ‘Derin was down and she saw ‘Mina galloping to her side from the corner of her eye. The next thing she knew, her Dina was suddenly folding over and she gasped as the jerk drove the breath out of her lungs. Hooves and childish faces filled her vision as she rolled off Dina’s back and continued a smooth roll away from another set of hot, brown Felaki eyes. The sun struck her eyes, and the moist wind blew the rusty smell of blood into her face. A dark shadow... a close up of iron-shod hooves... and the world disappeared in a burst of white sparks...
****
Chicago, September 4th, 2010 AD.
Isadora Delabore was a beauty. She was an uncommon beauty with fiery auburn ringlets cascading down a slim back, a complexion that would have been termed “roses and cream” in the regency era, soft pink lush lips with a just-been-kissed look, cheekbones and nose that were a perfection of gorgeous symmetry, and her best feature: a pair of deep blue eyes with sparks of gold swimming through. She was also uncommonly spoiled and extremely selfish with about an inch of character to her nature that was composed of goodwill. The rest of her was fanatically devoted to Isadora Delabore, and not a single person in her circle could shake her conviction that she was perfection personified and deserved only the best, without much effort on her behalf.
It was a bright cheery afternoon, and the dappled sunlight from the trees outside the window was put to good use illuminating a luxurious golden bedchamber. Dora was seated in front of a full length gilt mirror whose frame carried innumerable cherubs frolicking adorably in a Shakespearean setting reminiscent of an indulgent scene from “A Midsummer Night’s dream”. She did not spend much time focused on the cherubs. She was instead reaffirming her world-view. She admired her skin, her swan-like neck, the perfection in the contours of her soft, soft lips, and the beautifully made-up eyes which shone with a mixture of gratification and puzzlement. She had just arrived after going through a very trying encounter with her inamorata of three years, in which, for the first time, she was facing rejection from the position of the receiver.
“I was supposed to go with her to the fete at Diana’s tonight! I cannot go with Seraph, I would just die!!! She has to change her mind! There must be something I can do!” All this ran through her mind. A calculating look gleamed through her eye. She would use the best weapon in her arsenal: Guilt.
The look that passed between her and her mirror image said it all. “I’m way too smart to have to fold to the dictates of anyone else. Let’s see how they deal with this!”. She gracefully left her seat, as anything must be done gracefully, and walked about her room collecting the things she would need.
Seated at her desk, she took out a fountain pen gifted her by her father, let a few drops spatter the foolscap paper laid out on her desk, dripped a couple drops of clear water on the paper as well, and then bent her head to writing. She wrote for about 45 minutes, thinking through her words and sentiments, completed her self-assigned task and sat back. After a sardonic smile directed at the clock, she re-read her work, and then crumpled it into a messy ball. After painstakingly straightening it out again, she folded it into thirds, left it in glorious solitary splendor in the center of her desk, picked up a bottle of pills and walked to her bed, glancing at the clock every few strides. She sat on her bed quietly, watching the clock for another half hour. When the minute hand was at three-quarter’s past the hour, she took a crystal glass from her bedside stand, deftly poured clear water from a golden-tinted bottle, upended the bottle of pills into her mouth, followed by water from the glass, and swallowed it all down. A few tears tracked down her cheeks on command, she smudged her mascara a little, let the crystal ping softly to the soft carpet below, lay back on the bed in a graceful sprawl of limbs and closed her eyes. Satisfied that the scene was set to her liking, she voluntarily welcomed the blanket that smothered her consciousness...
Fathomless green eyes blazed out of the mirror. They had long been compared to soft glades and verdant grass, but currently, they were more reminiscent of an unquenchable forest fire, sparking and flaring with restive energy. Isana’ta’meraska, sole daughter and heir to Shilansa’ta’meraska, late formidable leader of the warrior Itraski, softly bit out every curse that she knew and some that were created in the frenzy of sheer frustration that was running through her. It was a regular morning ritual that she went through, ever since the night she had realized the mantle she must needs wear to please her father, the indomitable warrior Inserin’ta’shkersa. It was no easy feat.
It was an undeniable fact that the Itraska were a warrior people who followed a resolute matriarchal structure. It was also commonly acknowledged that their leaders were usually women endowed with the sharpest honed battle-skills as well as the well-trained acumen of brilliant leaders. Yet, the very same women themselves had, at the dawn of the Itraska, laid down laws wherein Itraski females were to walk around garbed in heavy divided skirts, with long tunics reaching well below the buttocks, in order to appear more seemly to the non-Itraskis of their world. Flashy, tight jewelry, which would not be caught by a flying sword or a thrust spear, had been added in somewhere along the way. Her mother, ‘Lansa, the late great sword of the tribes, had dressed flawlessly in Itraski fashion and actually complained about being unable to wear loose jewelry and more layers!
The moment ‘Sana reached puberty, from which time it had been apparent to the oldest and most sight-crippled of the lot that her features were going to mimic ‘Lansa’s right down to the off center dimple and clefted, stubborn chin, there had been a drastic change in her father’s behavior. ‘Lansa, she who had scythed through an army with just 7 outriders and come out more alive than ever, had contentedly breathed her last at the birthing bed, after fighting through a painful pregnancy and being furiously greeted by a tiny, vociferous, red-faced lass who was refusing emphatically, with heaving limbs, to leave the sanctuary of her mother’s womb. ‘Serin, of the great lineage of the Shkersa maidens, was heart-broken but doggedly set aside his depression and turned to providing paternal support for a growing child. When faced with a miniature ‘Lansa, however, he began to withdraw into a silent shell which slowly started turning him from a vibrant warrior into a stone-faced loner.
One of his closest friends and advisers, on seeing the deteriorating situation, sat the then fourteen year old Isana down and listed the bare bones out for her. The precocious teenager, on that day, made a decision which lasted till this morning. She eschewed the feminine dresses of her community and the frivolous accessories, and started favoring the more austere dress code of the men, wearing breeches and short tunics of sober colours, pulling her luxurious auburn tresses into tight braids which left her scalp feeling extra-sensitive, and completely setting aside all jewelry except for the earrings that proclaimed her stature of heiress to the community.
This change successfully put a period to her father’s deterioration. He seemed more than happy to regard her as a boy. However, the tribal elders and most of the other members of the community made it clear through both speech and behaviour that this mode of dress was not acceptable to them. Friction and mental frustration had become close companions to ‘Sana ever since.
This morning, the plan was to patrol the norther border where there had an increasing number of skirmishes with the Felakis, a nomadic tribe who added to their numbers by kidnapping defenseless children and spelling them into submission.
Her guirardska today would be composed of 12 outriders, all of whom were emphatically vocal in their denunciation of her choice of dress. It did not matter to them that the Itraska were one of the rare communities which allowed free individual choice in matters of dress and lifestyle. There were as many female pairings as male in their society, wherein many of the women chose to dress in a more masculine fashion. It frustrated her that she should be so singled out for this criticism, especially when, at first, it had been practically forced on her. Of course, with time, she had come to appreciate the freedom of this dress style and now actively favored this over the more feminine trappings.
Waking up to the knowledge that, this day, she would be treated to various treatises of ‘Lansa’s dressing skills, made riding with this guirardska an exercise in frustration. She would be patiently and repeatedly condescended to and explained as to how she was bringing shame to the Itraska as their warrior women always dressed in the highest of fashions and did not deign to display their assets to the world at large. She was proud of her assets, curse them all! If she chose to display herself, she would, and if this brought some peace to her father’s withered heart, then she would do so with as much pride as the most bedecked of brides!
With this thought girding her loins, ‘Sana deftly tied off her last braid and set off in a light run to the stables. Her tight breeches displayed the beautiful play of muscle as her lope lengthened across the field. She greeted her disapproving, already mounted, guirardska with a quiet smile and hardly a hitch in her breath, and smoothly gained Dani’s back, ignoring the stable hand ready to provide her aid.
Without a single word, the group of thirteen riders, turned their horses’ noses into the wind and cantered off in tight formation. Any observers on the field would have appreciated the picture of disciplined grace as they slowly increased their mounts’ paces until they had reached a steady gallop without losing formation. The Itraskis were proud of their horsemanship and took great pains to display it wherever possible, even if the only eyes watching were their own.
They reached the northern border and wheeled off into groups of twos and threes and set off in an organized patrol. The border was a capricious entity and fluctuated with the feeble whims of the various herds that roamed this lush grassland. ‘Sana, partnered after many weeks, with Derin’ta’ginska, was pleased with her silent companion. They settled into a comfortable trot. She settled herself into a calm, observant state and let her thoughts drift. A sudden outbreak of sound off to the east drove the two of them into a gallop. Derin called alert with his horn, and there was a sudden barrage of horn blasts as the others in the guirardska raced toward them. They reached a trough in the landscape where a group of about fifteen Felakis were harrying about 20 youngsters in a tight pack. Letting out a furious bellow, ‘Sana lead the guirardska into a sharp strike against the kidnappers.
“‘Mina, lead left!” A group of three, sleekly flew out of formation and bracketed the Felakis on the left.
“‘Ferin, strike straight! ‘Derin, to me!” And the two groups clashed, each desperately trying to keep the sharp steel from injuring any of the youngsters.
One of the Felakis, a swarthy little man, tried to use a small shepherdess as a shield, his own shield-brother drove his light shield-sword into the coward’s heart. This land was rough, but youngsters were prized in all the societies.
‘Sana let the adrenaline rush carry her into an awareness-heightened state. An ululating cry escaped her lips as she engaged first one, then another, of the Felakis, trusting in ‘Derin to guard her blind side. A furious shout let her know that ‘Derin was down and she saw ‘Mina galloping to her side from the corner of her eye. The next thing she knew, her Dina was suddenly folding over and she gasped as the jerk drove the breath out of her lungs. Hooves and childish faces filled her vision as she rolled off Dina’s back and continued a smooth roll away from another set of hot, brown Felaki eyes. The sun struck her eyes, and the moist wind blew the rusty smell of blood into her face. A dark shadow... a close up of iron-shod hooves... and the world disappeared in a burst of white sparks...
****
Chicago, September 4th, 2010 AD.
Isadora Delabore was a beauty. She was an uncommon beauty with fiery auburn ringlets cascading down a slim back, a complexion that would have been termed “roses and cream” in the regency era, soft pink lush lips with a just-been-kissed look, cheekbones and nose that were a perfection of gorgeous symmetry, and her best feature: a pair of deep blue eyes with sparks of gold swimming through. She was also uncommonly spoiled and extremely selfish with about an inch of character to her nature that was composed of goodwill. The rest of her was fanatically devoted to Isadora Delabore, and not a single person in her circle could shake her conviction that she was perfection personified and deserved only the best, without much effort on her behalf.
It was a bright cheery afternoon, and the dappled sunlight from the trees outside the window was put to good use illuminating a luxurious golden bedchamber. Dora was seated in front of a full length gilt mirror whose frame carried innumerable cherubs frolicking adorably in a Shakespearean setting reminiscent of an indulgent scene from “A Midsummer Night’s dream”. She did not spend much time focused on the cherubs. She was instead reaffirming her world-view. She admired her skin, her swan-like neck, the perfection in the contours of her soft, soft lips, and the beautifully made-up eyes which shone with a mixture of gratification and puzzlement. She had just arrived after going through a very trying encounter with her inamorata of three years, in which, for the first time, she was facing rejection from the position of the receiver.
“I was supposed to go with her to the fete at Diana’s tonight! I cannot go with Seraph, I would just die!!! She has to change her mind! There must be something I can do!” All this ran through her mind. A calculating look gleamed through her eye. She would use the best weapon in her arsenal: Guilt.
The look that passed between her and her mirror image said it all. “I’m way too smart to have to fold to the dictates of anyone else. Let’s see how they deal with this!”. She gracefully left her seat, as anything must be done gracefully, and walked about her room collecting the things she would need.
Seated at her desk, she took out a fountain pen gifted her by her father, let a few drops spatter the foolscap paper laid out on her desk, dripped a couple drops of clear water on the paper as well, and then bent her head to writing. She wrote for about 45 minutes, thinking through her words and sentiments, completed her self-assigned task and sat back. After a sardonic smile directed at the clock, she re-read her work, and then crumpled it into a messy ball. After painstakingly straightening it out again, she folded it into thirds, left it in glorious solitary splendor in the center of her desk, picked up a bottle of pills and walked to her bed, glancing at the clock every few strides. She sat on her bed quietly, watching the clock for another half hour. When the minute hand was at three-quarter’s past the hour, she took a crystal glass from her bedside stand, deftly poured clear water from a golden-tinted bottle, upended the bottle of pills into her mouth, followed by water from the glass, and swallowed it all down. A few tears tracked down her cheeks on command, she smudged her mascara a little, let the crystal ping softly to the soft carpet below, lay back on the bed in a graceful sprawl of limbs and closed her eyes. Satisfied that the scene was set to her liking, she voluntarily welcomed the blanket that smothered her consciousness...
