Vignette 4 – Part 1

  Tyne, Princess of Skilda?

  Terra Torus, The First Plate, Arbarath, Capital of Skilda – A. F. 451,208:

  The Kingdom of Skilda didn’t really have princes and princesses. The cold, northern islands which comprised the kingdom were run by an elected monarch. When it came time for a new leader, the ruling clans of each of the seven Isles would send their candidates to be tested and judged by the wizened elders of all the clans. What this ultimately meant is that the king or queen of the human nation of Skilda’s children are not in line for the throne and thus are not princes or princesses.

  That tiny technicality did little to stop Tyne from being called a princess, despite her protests. She hated the moniker. Tyne was the furthest one could be from a princess. She liked to think of herself as a bit of a tomboy. She was forever fighting with her brothers; whenever she went out, she’d somehow always return covered in mud, and there wasn’t a rule she wouldn’t try breaking at least once.

  Her parents, the King of Skilda and his consort, had hoped that she would grow out of her unladylike phase when she turned twelve – the age at which young ladies started to learn the Skills that were expected of them, in the hopes of gaining an appropriate Class. She did not.

  Young Tyne bailed on her sewing lessons to join her brother's training in the marshalling yard. She lightly poisoned her language teacher so she could spend the time riding around the villages on her horse, Swallow. The troublesome redhead had even tied up her etiquette instructor in order to sneak off to the kitchens and switch the sugar and salt.

  Despite this, miracle of miracles, she was offered the Class of Lady on her sixteenth birthday. Her mother begged her to take it. A Lady could marry into one of the bigger, richer kingdoms on the mainland. Tyne did not choose the Class. She instead listened to her older brother Rhydd’s advice and followed her heart. Much to her mother’s dismay, Tyne became a common Warrior.

  At the age of nineteen, her parents had pretty much given her up as a lost cause, much to her delight. The royal couple had seven children, five boys and two girls, and the rest had turned out fine. Tyne was the youngest, so she was left to do as she pleased.

  Everyone, therefore, was surprised when – after her father, the King, began feeling his years and sent word to the other clans that he was going to step down – Tyne put her hat in the ring as a candidate for the next Queen of Skilda.

  It wasn’t that she was unqualified. Much of the island’s wealth came from raiding the mainland; thus, the hardy people of Skilda valued strength of arm, something Tyne’s Warrior Class helped her to cultivate. She was also a bit of a character; her antics made her known to most of the island. There wasn’t anyone on her clan’s isle who hadn’t, at some point, fallen prey to her pranks. The people started calling her Princess Tyne after someone discovered she hated the title; spite was a powerful expression of love among the isolated folk.

  No, everyone was surprised because none thought she had the serious demeanour required of a leader. That was exactly why she would become queen. A part of her needed to prove them wrong.

  On the morning of the big day, when her father was to host a feast and officially announce his retirement in front of all of the clan elders and their candidates, she was lying very still on top of a pile of hay in the stable, groaning every time her horse moved and light struck her delicate, freckled face.

  The night before, she and the other young men and women vying for the position of ruler had gone out drinking. Although Skilda was a fairly informal place, there were none on the same social level as the clan members, so they had practically been forced to become friends when they were children.

  Slei of Clan Neidr, a thin, sallow man with the complexion of a corpse, had challenged her to a drinking contest. Never one to refuse a competition, Tyne accepted readily. Despite her boasts, she only managed to neck a dozen pints of mead before her memory turned fuzzy.

  From what little she recalled, the snake, Slei, had managed to stay upright after drinking enough to fell an ox. She let out a whimper when she realised he was obviously cheating. Why Tyne had ever expected to have an honest contest with a member of Clan Neidr, she’d never know.

  Sunlight struck her welded-shut eyes once more, and she flailed sickly, cringing away from the feeling of dizziness. This time, however, her ever-loyal horse didn’t move to protect her.

  “Swallow,” she cried out petulantly. A neigh came in response, but the sound was moving away from her.

  “No!” she moaned, discomfort filling her aching muscles.

  “Yes,” a male voice replied with obvious humour.

  “Who is it?” Tyne whined, refusing to open her eyes and look.

  “Who do you think would come looking for you?” the person asked.

  Tyne flinched. “Sheriff Gray! It was an emergency; I needed that sheep to save someone’s life,” she lied, still refusing to open her eyes.

  The man let out a chuckling laugh that was far too high-pitched to be the grizzled sheriff. “As much as I’d love to hear that story, we don’t have time, you need to get ready for the feast. Also, it's Rhydd, your favorite brother.”

  Tyne grumbled grouchily, “Can’t they just postpone until tomorrow?”

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  Rhydd laughed again, this time grimly. “Half the elders don’t want you there; they're not gonna wait. You need to get up, now.”

  “Just give me five more minutes,” Tyne pleaded, keeping her eyes stubbornly closed. The girl with hair as red as fire let out a surprised but contented sigh when she heard Rhydd walking away. He’d actually done the smart thing for once and listened to her.

  She was proven wrong seconds later when a sudden, violent splash drenched her in icy cold water. Her eyes snapped open as she screamed her frustration. She jumped to her feet, ready to smack her guilty, grinning brother, but a spell of nausea overcame her, and she found herself bent over, vomiting onto a pile of horse dung.

  Some time later, after all of the contents of her stomach had been evacuated and some bile besides, Tyne began wobbling her way back to the castle, leaning heavily on Rhydd for support.

  The stable where she had awoken lay at the bottom of the mountain, close to the town, and the castle sat atop the sheer-sided pillar of granite known as Craig Yr Aderyn. The only way to reach her home was by ascending the neighbouring peak and crossing a bridge.

  Climbing up the well-worn road in her present state was not fun. Every few minutes she was forced to use the seats conveniently stationed at the passing places. The only saving grace was the lack of traffic. Ordinarily, the road would be bustling with deliveries, soldiers, and servants heading to and from the castle, but as all the elders of all the clans were gathered, the place was on lockdown – no one in or out.

  After a gruelling trudge she wished to soon forget, Tyne and Rhydd stepped out from the shelter of a group of rocks and onto the ancient stone bridge. Immediately, the free-spirited young lady felt better. Her pace increased as she walked across the familiar structure. The refreshing wind made her hair dance about like flames. Tyne stepped up to the northern railing, taking in a deep breath and looking out over the city of Arbarath.

  Her home was bustling with life. The docks, located in a haven, sheltered by a small island close to shore, were busy as ever. She took a moment to take in the reason she was doing these. She wanted to become queen in order to help those people. Despite what people might say, she loved her home and wished to spend her life serving it.

  A sudden bout of sickness took over once more. Not wanting to throw up on the city, she rushed to the southern railing. After more gagging, she took a moment to recover by gazing upon the countryside.

  Flat farmland lay in front of her, the work of some long-forgotten river that carved the plains from the mountains, or the labour of giants, if you believed the tales. Beyond the agricultural heart of the island stood the ancient forest, whose dark depths were like a second home to her.

  She took a moment to remember riding through the woods, shooting at targets, and challenging herself not to miss a single shot. Tyne sighed. She would rather be out there, having fun, but this was something she had to do.

  She scrunched her nose. “Did that tree just move?”

  Rhydd looked at her strangely. “I think you need to get some food in you. Something to help sober you up.” Tyne reluctantly agreed. The idea of eating made her stomach churn, but she knew from experience she’d feel better afterwards.

  The guards, ordered not to open the gate for any reason, recognised the pair and lowered a rope. One of the stocky men enjoyed laughing at Tyne as she struggled to pull herself up the iron gate. Her balance was terrible, and it took her three attempts to reach the top, at which point the man abruptly stopped laughing when he was grabbed by the wrist and pulled over the edge, down onto the bridge. His stats ensured he wasn’t injured, but his fall sure made Tyne feel better.

  The other guard, an old veteran who she’d known since she was little, looked at her with disappointment. The smile on her face melted away. Reluctantly, she agreed to lift the angry guard’s armour back onto the wall so that he could climb up.

  Once that debacle was over, Rhydd began leading the way, but Tyne stopped him. “I need to go to my room first,” she said, looking down at her poo, mead, and sick-stained shirt. “I’ve got to get changed.”

  Rhydd nodded his head vigorously. “Good idea, I’ll meet you in the kitchens and get Cook to whip you up something special.” Tyne shivered at the thought – Cook’s hangover cures were famous, but not for how they tasted.

  She left her brother and stumbled through the castle alone. The hallways were jam-packed with servants rushing to prepare the feast, which made getting to her rooms a chore. On the plus side, everyone was too busy to stop and see what a state Tyne was in. If her father found out… the young woman decided to speed up; it was best the king didn’t know what she was doing last night.

  Before long, Tyne fell through the door into her room. There was a squeak in response to her sudden entrance. Llygoden, Tyne’s lady-in-waiting, a wee lass with mousey hair, mousey eyes, and a mouse-like countenance, was startled by her mistress’s stumbling return.

  Tyne squinted her eyes at the woman. Llygoden had clearly been sleeping in the chair. “You didn’t wait up for me, did you?” she asked, concerned.

  Llygoden, who had been staring at the other woman, averted her gaze and spoke in a small voice, “I was worried about you.”

  Tyne shook her head, nearly collapsed from dizziness, and decided that was a terrible idea. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m fine on my own. I don’t need to be fussed over.”

  Llygoden sank back, somehow becoming even smaller.

  Tyne sighed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I know you were just being thoughtful, but I don’t like to see you so worried. There’s nothing to worry about. Look, I’m fine.” She said the last with a pale smile that was anything but reassuring.

  Llygoden looked her mistress over doubtfully. “You look like you need a bath,” the young lady in waiting said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

  Tyne, taken off guard by the sudden comeback, groaned. Normally, she was like a cat when it came to baths. Llygoden had to spend ages wearing her down until she could finally catch the other woman off guard. Today, however, Tyne was forced to admit that she probably should have a proper scrub. With a reluctant nod, she agreed to let Llygoden run her a bath.

  The mouse-like woman had the Maid Class at level 9 and unlocked a very useful Skill. She was able to raise her hand above any container and instantly fill it with hot water. She used this to prepare a bath for Tyne in an instant.

  The next half hour was spent thoroughly cleaning away the grime from last night’s adventures. When they were done, Llygoden set out a series of dresses that she hoped Tyne might wear to the feast.

  The princess felt bad for the other woman; Llygoden had always wanted to serve a proper lady, but that just wasn’t her. Much to the small woman’s chagrin, Tyne insisted on wearing padded chausses to cover her legs, sturdy yet supple riding boots, and a padded gambason emblazoned with her clan’s crest – a burning ship. The main colour of all of her armour was a vibrant orange that matched her cherished hair.

  While Llygoden was busy strapping on Tyne’s sword belt, the young princess stared out of her southern window. Something caught her attention, and she spoke up. “Say, Llygoden, does the forest look different to you?”

  Llygoden briefly glanced up before returning to her work. “No, my lady.”

  “Does it not look… closer?” Tyne asked, unsure.

  “My lady, forests don’t move.” Llygoden replied in a patient tone that bordered on condescension.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Tyne replied distantly as she dismissed the thought. Less than a minute later, Llygoden declared herself finished. As she examined herself in the copper mirror, Tyne had to admit, despite her aversion to the stuff, Llygoden was able to make armour look good.

  Tyne nodded to herself. Properly attired, she felt more herself. “Thanks, Llygo. I look perfect.”

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