Schemes and Snakes
As Artea stood there, in front of the mirror, contemplating if she would ever be good enough for the upcoming Queenstrial, there was a call. “Lady Artea, your Uncle is calling,” a red servant said, bowing to her. “I’ll be there soon,” she said as she waved her hand, a clear cut dismissal. “My Lady, he seems quite insistent that you arrive right away.” “I said I will be there soon.” she snapped in irritation. “Artea, get over here right now!” she heard her uncle bellow. Sighing moodily, Artea stalked across her lavish room in the heart of Summerton. With a wave of her hand, the oaken door to her chambers blew open in a tunnel of wind. The Red servants scurried out of her way, taking notice of her arrogant sneer that spoke of years of entitlement. “ Uncle,” she said in a honeyed tone, “Is there a particular reason why you were calling me?” “ Yes, Artea, I just received notice from Lord Provos that you submitted an application form to participate in the Queenstrial. I thought I told you that-” “Uncle,” Artea rudely interrupted, “ I know very well what you said, but I refuse to just sit back while Cycara gets the glory of participating.” “I said what I said, not because I don’t want you to participate but because of what happened the last time you got involved in a competition,” her uncle sharply replied. “That’s a whole load of bullshit.” Artea said, her voice rising with every word. “ You know that what happened three years ago was an accident, and a misunderstanding, and anyways, I am not participating to win the already insufferably noble crown prince’s hand, I am participating so that I can be recognized as the greatest windweaver Norta has ever known!” “Young Lady, this discussion is over. You are not participating in the Queenstrial, and that is final,” her Uncle said in a barely contained, rage filled voice. Astrea huffed angrily, and stalked outside of her the Laris family Manor on the edge of the city of Summerton. She angrily stomped through the quiet backstreets of the city without paying attention to where she was going, and slammed into a broad muscular chest. “Hey, watch where you’re going,” a deep voice said from above her head. The man she had bumped into was tall, and broad, with silver white hair, and pallid grey eyes. “ She quickly stood u, rattled by her fall, and with an unfailing tone of superiority snarled, “You watch where you’re going you big buffon. You’re taking up nearly the whole walkway.” “Do you know who you’re talking to,” he responded hastily. Artea instantly responded with a snarky tone, “The question is if you know who you’re talking to. For your information, I am Artea Laris, heir to The Westlakes region. Who are you,” she snapped out, trying, and failing to look down her nose at him. “ Well, my name is Ptolemus Samos.” At this simple statement Artea frowned, annoyed that he was in an equal status position with her. After thinking for a few seconds, she replied angrily, “Well, if you really are the son of the great Volo Samos, then you should know your manners, and apologize to the woman that you just knocked over.” At that Ptolemus snorted, and stalked away, crossing the street, and entering a large building. She huffed in indignation, and strolled through the city, albeit more carefully now, making for The Capital River. After a few minutes of waiting at the river, just sitting, doing nothing, a timid looking boy, with short brown hair rounded the corner, and slowly approached her. “Oliver, my dear cousin. How are you?” Artea asked slyly. He didn’t respond to her question, and instead plopped himself down on the bench. “I have the information that you asked for. It was really hard to get it, so you should be careful about it,” he said in his timid voice. “Thank you dear Oliver. I want you to tell me why Elara’s son is sneaking around The Western Gardens at night though,” Artea said coyly. “He is meeting with a group of people that are planning to kill a few influential politicians,” Oliver mumbled. At this Artea frowned and sat still for a long while. “ Oliver, I want you to tell your grandmother to tread carefully around the queen and her son. Can you do that for me?” She asked contemplatively. “Yes.” And with that Oliver turned to leave, rounding the same corner from whence he came.