A Stolen Poem

By: Ayleth Posted on: July 23, 2012

"Lord Aeon, He beckons at the beginning of a new year,

As you remember the date is the first of Sarapin.

Fireworks go off, everyone screaming in joy and fear,

For the year six hundred games will shortly begin.

"What better way to show who has the skill and strength,

Then to pit everyone against the other in different games?

For whom would go to such pallable and amazing lengths,

To win the Staff of Nicator in the glory of their name?

"For this is what the spirit of competetion does,

Filling us with the urge to beat our friends to the end,

In order to glorify our names in history just because,

To win the Staff of Nicator is power the Gods will lend."

A shuffle resounded in the room, followed by the slam of a door. The mhun sharply lifted her head, her emerald green eyes narrowed at the source of the noise as she is obviously irked at the disruption of her silent study. Shaking her head, she lowered it to gaze back at the parchment perched on the desk, three verses of poetry scrawled in her neat, curved hand.

"..."

The presence of a hand on her shoulder, made the mhun jump, her hand flitting to her heart as she tried to make the erratic beating silence itself. Her head turned. Peering into the darkness, she could find nothing of the ordinary. No owner of the hand that had just been on her shoulder. She returned to her work, the scratching of her quill on the scroll echoing throughout the almost barren room.

Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched - that someone else was in the room with her. She had no way of knowing if a Serpent Lord, a Naga, or even a Shadowsnake was present in the room with her, nor even another of the profession of Achaea that could hide their presence - infernals, apostates, occultists.

"H-hello? Is s-som-someone there?" The mhun quietly called out to the deserted room, her voice cracking. Silence greeted her. Not even the shuffle of footsteps or the sound of someone running into one of the few pieces of furniture in the large room was apparent. Her shoulders rolled in a slight movement, her attention returning to the poem she was hopefully submitting to the Bardic Council in the next few months.

That was when she felt it.

The sharp, quick pressure of a dirk in her back, penetrating the armour that she wore to protect herself. It went deeper, deeper into her as it soon entered her body.

Then the pressure lightened.

And everything seemed to fade to black...

"..I wasn't expecting her to die in one hit." The smooth, hissing voice resounded as clear as day. Her eyes opened, revealing the cloaked, and masked, countenance of a rajamala. He was holding a dirk in his left hand, the scroll that the mhun was working on was in his right.

"Hey, that's mine!" Her voice sounded meek, almost ethereal as if she wasn't really there.

"Oh, is it? It doesn't seem to have your name on it."

"Give it back!" She reached out to swipe the paper from his hand, only to realise that it was in vain. She was nothing more than a spirit awaiting the call of the Lady Maya in whether or not she'd return to life. The rajamala's eyes lit up, making it seem like a smirk was hidden under the velvet mask. "..you killed me! Why in the world would you do that?"

"I have strict orders, ma'am." He bowed his head in reverence. "You see, I was hired by a wealthy man. He's citiless, big and scaley, large teeth. He seemed to have run out of inspiration, afraid that the, uh, muses of the Great Bard have left him for some mediocre literary writer." A small laugh. "He said to go find other's peoples works so he can rid himself of this 'writer's block' in order to win the next contest to gain the Lord's favour."

The mhun glared at the rajamala, her arms crossing over her chest resolutely.

"Why in the world would you steal something I've been working on for three years?"

"It's all for the spirit of competetion, my dear. Think about it this way," He paused, a twinkle in his eye. "This theft attempt can make you a better writer. By spending time on another piece of work, you can further your knowledge on subjects and create a better piece of fictional art. Now, tata, sweetheart."

With a blink of an eye, the man was gone.

"The spirit of competition, huh?" The mhun rolled her shoulders, giving in to the constant urge she was feeling. Seeing her situation hopeless, she closed her eyes and prayed fervently to the Divine for a second chance, her soul disappearing from the room of her study.