The smoke curled up, black, oppressive, kindled by possessions of clothing, trinkets, all turning to ash as the tall bonfire consumed them. The night was cold, but the heat of the somewhat hypnotic flames allowed her to go without a cloak or blanket. The last item to be devoured in her hand, a piece of red fabric, it falling at the edge of the roaring fire to quickly become naught.
Several days had passed since the betrayal, the confession of his infidelity being what collapsed already shaky foundations between the blossom and her bard. No other words said, no vengeance taken, their game had clearly become dull to him, and yet, such betrayal awoke something long buried in her, something dark, something grim.
She sat, the air deathly still, the smell of smoke heavy, almost stifling and a goblet of rich heady wine close by. She wrote, using the light of the flames to illuminate her book. The ink flowed smoothly across the page, her thoughts once again being captured by it.
Who has died? Really, I purchase a highly expensive, very beautiful dress in black, and this is what is asked of me? My old life, that was all I could say. I cannot bring myself to wear my once favourite of gowns, exquisite pink lace, cut to perfection. Perhaps it should be burnt like the Bards belongings? Perhaps. Now I look back upon my past, how unused I am to the game, courtships, men who have, in theory, a possibility of wooing me. I pity them, for they know not how complicated their lives would be. Would I enjoy such a thing? Would I despise them? I know not if I could trust them. One visited me, in need of aid. A nasty looking wound, and although his treatment painful, although my mood far from light, he still wished to lay compliments at my feet. He will likely return, perhaps an axe wound to the leg, a knife wound to the side or some such nonsense.
She stared at the fire as she considered such a possibility, small embers glittering as they ascended into the inky black sky. Eventually though her thoughts went elsewhere.
I believe I unnerved Gerlof with my ambition, for what do I have now to hold me back? Nothing and no one. If my old life has died, I call this my rebirth. I shall expand my business to all quarters of the land, none shall be without my influence in one form or another. He is hesitant, he believes I invite trouble to our doorstep. Will I speak to Egoldir of this? Doubtful, he seems to lack the passion needed, though perhaps I am wrong. What use are my talents if they lay dormant? I am certain my brother would understand, for all our quarreling in the past, he at least saw my potential. He understood my desire for power, to control.
Sipping from a deep goblet, she then sighed, a light breeze picking up and spreading the smoke from the fire westward, threatening to turn the page of the book but thwarted as she began to write again.
War is a very profitable business, fear spreads like wildfire, a few well placed words in a guards ear, a whisper to a lord or commander and weapons will be bought by the dozens, my "product" also in abundance. So what if I exaggerate a little? The black tide of war will encroach on these lands as it has others, I am simply allowing them to be prepared. Yes, Gerlof is no blacksmith, but he has ore, more importantly transportation in way of trading carts. The more I think of it, the more alive I feel.
Silently she laid down the quill, allowing the breeze to dry the ink upon the page, strands of her golden hair gently blowing about her face, her goblet of wine in her hand and in that moment, she was content.
