Post by Gilbert Beilschmidt on Feb 4, 2012 1:11:43 GMT -5
The First War
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“...Here we are again.”
The words were spoken by a calm, deep voice that betrayed no emotion as a young boy, no older than ten, slowly entered the lavishly decorated study that looked more like a lounge with all of the pillows and blankets lying everywhere. The child was exceedingly small for his age, maybe a metre and a quarter height at his absolute tallest estimate, and was wearing a simple white tunic with matching breeches, skin a considerable contrast by being deeply tanned from many long months at sea. His rich mahogany tresses spilled out from beneath the edges of a floppy white beret, one curl standing out and defying gravity near the left of his cherubic face the same way the boy had defied everyone’s expectations and became the most powerful sea-power in the Mediterranean. His expression was one of cold suspicion, a sight that seemed odd for such a young face and a small body.
“Ve, si. Again.” The Republic of Venice agreed readily enough, moving to stand at the edge of the low table serving as a desk near the middle of the room, scrunching his nose up at the smell of burning incense that was wafting through the air. As he approached the table the torchlight reflected off the dagger strapped to his waist and softened the sharp edges of the quiver and bow attached to his back by a strip of healthy brown leather. If one looked closer, the sight of bloodstained bandages would peak out at you from around the edges of his immaculate clothes.
The Ottoman Empire turned to face the young-looking boy, white mask obscuring his face from view as his elaborately decorated and layered white and red robes did the same with his body. Nothing was visible that could tell you what the man looked like beneath the outfit or whether he too was injured, but when he walked over to the pile of pillows you knew were for him considering the quality of them as compared to the others the Empire was unable to hide a pronounced limp. He sighed, staring down at the other. “We are both aware of how this war will end. That is why I have brought you here.”
“At the cost of two more of your ships, ve~” The brunette chirped, a sharp, slightly manic grin on his face and bright amber eyes dancing with a victorious light. “You really are sciocco, Ottoman, wasting so many of your men when a letter with a messenger would have worked just as well.”
“I thought it would be better to come fetch you myself. I don’t need another messenger’s returned to me, velet.” The older nation’s voice was cold, and the two of them stared each other down, Ottoman’s mask’s grin mocking as Veneziano’s was deranged.
The boy moved first. Swiftly pulling out his knife, Venezia feinted do his left and then spun under the robed man’s answering scimitar swing, which would have decapitated him had he been any slower, and was about to stab the older man in the side when he was blocked by another, shorter dagger with a jagged edge. The man was more than easily able to shove the boy against the edge of the table, looming over him. Though a bit winded from the force of the slam, the small brunette refused to go down that easily. Using another feint he made to stab the Ottoman Empire, but it was only a distraction as he hooked his right foot around the other’s calves, tripping him up as he tried dodging the knife. The unexpected obstacle sent the tall man crashing to the floor. Venezia pounced on him, digging the edge of his dagger into the man’s throat. “Noisy little upstart,” he hissed.
“From you that is a compliment, Roma torunu.”
Snarling, the boy was just about to draw his blade along the Turk’s throat, slitting it and ending this whole farce of a meeting, when suddenly he was the one pined to the floor with a blade being pressed into his chest. Venice’s dagger was still at Ottoman’s throat, but in the shift he had sliced through the older nation’s ‘hood’, revealing a thin metal circlet wrapped around the older nation’s throat. “Sneaky trick,” he snorted derisively, though there was both a tinge of respect and worry in his eyes.
“Is your rage out of your system, velet?” The man asked, distate and exasperation quite blatant in his voice but otherwise unaffected by the whole exchange. When the small Italian nodded, Ottoman warily sat back on his heels and allowed the boy to push himself to his knees before standing himself. “As I was saying, we know how the war will end, little one,” He continued, settling down in his pile of pillows and gesturing for the other to join him. “You fight bravely, but we are both wasting men and resources, and you need my trade anyway. Since I’m to win, I wa—“
“Vaffanculo! There’s no guarantee you’ll win, vecchio schifoso!” Venice snapped, plopping down on his own assortment of cushions and blankets and scowling at the Empire. “Just because you’ve been—“
“Stop, stop, we are not here for violence and arguments,” Ottoman reasoned, gesturing for the brunette boy to calm down and take a few berries from the dish sitting on the desk between them. “This is different from the skirmishes we’ve had in the past This ia a war, and delicacy is needed.”
“I’m not an idiot, Turk. I have seen more war than you. That doesn’t mean the right of conjecture, ve,” Venice retorted, glaring suspiciously at the rich, dark berries. He had no reason to trust the man’s food so carelessly. “You eat one.”
“Nedir?” Ottoman’s voice was a soft mixture of confusion and surprise at the statement.
“You want me to eat anything you give me, you take the first bite.” He reasoned. The Italian had read, heard of, and witnessed enough poisonings by food, especially fruits, to never trust anything not prepared by his own hands.
“Such a suspicious boy you are!” The robed man observed, his words practically dancing with amusement. “Your grandfather would be both proud and ashamed, he’s taught you so well!” Ignoring the boy’s snarled “Stai zitto!”, he reached across the desk and picked up two berries, careful not to squeeze too tight and burst the delicate skin. Then, with absolutely no hesitation, he pulled his hood and mask from his face, revealing hair the color of rich, fertile dirt, skin darkly tanned from both natural pigmentation as well as the harsh sun, and rugged features of a man well versed in the ways of life not hidden behind a grinning mask. Dark, intense eyes that Venice almost recognized stared down at him in good humor, and then the Empire—an existance technically younger than the ten-year-old boy before him but physically aged so much faster—popped the two small fruits into his mouth, crushed them between his molars, and swallowed the juice and remaining pulp. “Is that enough to calm your ire, Venice?” He asked, face twisted up in what was a mocking mask of an appeasing smile.
Venice would have gladly prefered to continue staring at the white mask again. “Sì, sì,” he chirped dismissively, pushing himself up onto his shins to better reach the berries himself. “It doesn’t hurt to be wary in times like this though, ve~” After the first taste of the intensely sweet juice caressed his tongue, a genuine look of childish enjoyment came to his small, round face and he swiftly swallowed three more of the berries. “Ve, these are really good! Where did you get them?”
“Oh, I just had them picked when I decided to hold a meeting between us.” The man’s coffee-brown eyes were half-hooded as his smile grew. “I’m surprised you haven’t tasted them before, the plants are common in your lands as well as my own. Quite a beautiful plant, only grows about your height, actually. Dark green leaves and purple stems with the sweetest berries you’ll taste... Quite popular with the children of my nation, so I’m glad you enjoy them as well. There is quite an interesting name for the plant in your language, if I remember correctly. Perhaps you know it by that name?”
“Really, ve? What is i—“
“You know, at the moment I can’t think of what it is! Give me a moment, lütfen?” Ottoman laughed to himself as if amused by his own ‘forgetfullness’. His gaze never left the form of the small boy, whose face was rapidly paling, mouth opening and shutting with no ridiculous noises coming out. A sudden crash seemed to break the dark-haired man from his attempts to ‘recall’ the plant’s name, but a closer look revealed eyes darkened in sick amusement as Venice collapsed against the desk, knocking the dish to the floor. A sudden spasm sent the boy tumbling from the desk as well and Ottoman shook his head, smrking. “Such an eager little one, you really do like them!” Slowly picking up a handful of the sweet treatas, the new Empire glided over to where the Republic was sprawled helplessly amidst the large pillows, occasionally hunching up and twisting about in an uncontrollable twitch and thrash. He reached down and picked the boy up by the collar of his rapidly staining white tunic, holding a berry to his unresponsive lips. “Here then, have some more!” Ottoman’s cheerful smile and words were followed by him pushing every black fruit, at least a dozen altogether, into that voiceless mouth and down his throat to his stomach. “Ah, I remember now! Isn’t that fantastic?”
All Venice could do was cough weakly, black juice trailing over his trembling bottom lip and down an expanse of paper-thin, unnaturally white skin to leave inkstains on his soiled tunic, mixing with the blood now blooming on the white canvas. His body was wracked with spasms and, had there been a floor to support him the youth would be curled in on himself, struggling agianst the electricity frying his very nerves. Ottoman tutted and scooped the boy up properly against his chest, wiping the liquid from the Italian’s chin and taking sick delight in the purple stain left behind.
“Oh, what’s wrong, ufaklýk?” Ottoman asked in a convincingly fake worried manner, face twisted up in such an overexaggerated expression of concern his true amusement was all the more obvious. “You were so expressive earlier, always sharing your opinion! Then again, you ate many more berries than I had expected~” Chuckling lightly, the brunette shifted his grip so he could kneel down and pick up another of the deadly fruit without losing his grip on the agonized boy. “This, young Venice, is the fruit of the Belladonna plant. Clever, isn’t it?” He continued, relishing in the horror dawning in dimming amber eyes. “Adults can survive eating up to twenty of these berries without the interference of a healer, but children...children will die after eating as little as a single berry.”
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This part to be continued
---
“...Here we are again.”
The words were spoken by a calm, deep voice that betrayed no emotion as a young boy, no older than ten, slowly entered the lavishly decorated study that looked more like a lounge with all of the pillows and blankets lying everywhere. The child was exceedingly small for his age, maybe a metre and a quarter height at his absolute tallest estimate, and was wearing a simple white tunic with matching breeches, skin a considerable contrast by being deeply tanned from many long months at sea. His rich mahogany tresses spilled out from beneath the edges of a floppy white beret, one curl standing out and defying gravity near the left of his cherubic face the same way the boy had defied everyone’s expectations and became the most powerful sea-power in the Mediterranean. His expression was one of cold suspicion, a sight that seemed odd for such a young face and a small body.
“Ve, si. Again.” The Republic of Venice agreed readily enough, moving to stand at the edge of the low table serving as a desk near the middle of the room, scrunching his nose up at the smell of burning incense that was wafting through the air. As he approached the table the torchlight reflected off the dagger strapped to his waist and softened the sharp edges of the quiver and bow attached to his back by a strip of healthy brown leather. If one looked closer, the sight of bloodstained bandages would peak out at you from around the edges of his immaculate clothes.
The Ottoman Empire turned to face the young-looking boy, white mask obscuring his face from view as his elaborately decorated and layered white and red robes did the same with his body. Nothing was visible that could tell you what the man looked like beneath the outfit or whether he too was injured, but when he walked over to the pile of pillows you knew were for him considering the quality of them as compared to the others the Empire was unable to hide a pronounced limp. He sighed, staring down at the other. “We are both aware of how this war will end. That is why I have brought you here.”
“At the cost of two more of your ships, ve~” The brunette chirped, a sharp, slightly manic grin on his face and bright amber eyes dancing with a victorious light. “You really are sciocco, Ottoman, wasting so many of your men when a letter with a messenger would have worked just as well.”
“I thought it would be better to come fetch you myself. I don’t need another messenger’s returned to me, velet.” The older nation’s voice was cold, and the two of them stared each other down, Ottoman’s mask’s grin mocking as Veneziano’s was deranged.
The boy moved first. Swiftly pulling out his knife, Venezia feinted do his left and then spun under the robed man’s answering scimitar swing, which would have decapitated him had he been any slower, and was about to stab the older man in the side when he was blocked by another, shorter dagger with a jagged edge. The man was more than easily able to shove the boy against the edge of the table, looming over him. Though a bit winded from the force of the slam, the small brunette refused to go down that easily. Using another feint he made to stab the Ottoman Empire, but it was only a distraction as he hooked his right foot around the other’s calves, tripping him up as he tried dodging the knife. The unexpected obstacle sent the tall man crashing to the floor. Venezia pounced on him, digging the edge of his dagger into the man’s throat. “Noisy little upstart,” he hissed.
“From you that is a compliment, Roma torunu.”
Snarling, the boy was just about to draw his blade along the Turk’s throat, slitting it and ending this whole farce of a meeting, when suddenly he was the one pined to the floor with a blade being pressed into his chest. Venice’s dagger was still at Ottoman’s throat, but in the shift he had sliced through the older nation’s ‘hood’, revealing a thin metal circlet wrapped around the older nation’s throat. “Sneaky trick,” he snorted derisively, though there was both a tinge of respect and worry in his eyes.
“Is your rage out of your system, velet?” The man asked, distate and exasperation quite blatant in his voice but otherwise unaffected by the whole exchange. When the small Italian nodded, Ottoman warily sat back on his heels and allowed the boy to push himself to his knees before standing himself. “As I was saying, we know how the war will end, little one,” He continued, settling down in his pile of pillows and gesturing for the other to join him. “You fight bravely, but we are both wasting men and resources, and you need my trade anyway. Since I’m to win, I wa—“
“Vaffanculo! There’s no guarantee you’ll win, vecchio schifoso!” Venice snapped, plopping down on his own assortment of cushions and blankets and scowling at the Empire. “Just because you’ve been—“
“Stop, stop, we are not here for violence and arguments,” Ottoman reasoned, gesturing for the brunette boy to calm down and take a few berries from the dish sitting on the desk between them. “This is different from the skirmishes we’ve had in the past This ia a war, and delicacy is needed.”
“I’m not an idiot, Turk. I have seen more war than you. That doesn’t mean the right of conjecture, ve,” Venice retorted, glaring suspiciously at the rich, dark berries. He had no reason to trust the man’s food so carelessly. “You eat one.”
“Nedir?” Ottoman’s voice was a soft mixture of confusion and surprise at the statement.
“You want me to eat anything you give me, you take the first bite.” He reasoned. The Italian had read, heard of, and witnessed enough poisonings by food, especially fruits, to never trust anything not prepared by his own hands.
“Such a suspicious boy you are!” The robed man observed, his words practically dancing with amusement. “Your grandfather would be both proud and ashamed, he’s taught you so well!” Ignoring the boy’s snarled “Stai zitto!”, he reached across the desk and picked up two berries, careful not to squeeze too tight and burst the delicate skin. Then, with absolutely no hesitation, he pulled his hood and mask from his face, revealing hair the color of rich, fertile dirt, skin darkly tanned from both natural pigmentation as well as the harsh sun, and rugged features of a man well versed in the ways of life not hidden behind a grinning mask. Dark, intense eyes that Venice almost recognized stared down at him in good humor, and then the Empire—an existance technically younger than the ten-year-old boy before him but physically aged so much faster—popped the two small fruits into his mouth, crushed them between his molars, and swallowed the juice and remaining pulp. “Is that enough to calm your ire, Venice?” He asked, face twisted up in what was a mocking mask of an appeasing smile.
Venice would have gladly prefered to continue staring at the white mask again. “Sì, sì,” he chirped dismissively, pushing himself up onto his shins to better reach the berries himself. “It doesn’t hurt to be wary in times like this though, ve~” After the first taste of the intensely sweet juice caressed his tongue, a genuine look of childish enjoyment came to his small, round face and he swiftly swallowed three more of the berries. “Ve, these are really good! Where did you get them?”
“Oh, I just had them picked when I decided to hold a meeting between us.” The man’s coffee-brown eyes were half-hooded as his smile grew. “I’m surprised you haven’t tasted them before, the plants are common in your lands as well as my own. Quite a beautiful plant, only grows about your height, actually. Dark green leaves and purple stems with the sweetest berries you’ll taste... Quite popular with the children of my nation, so I’m glad you enjoy them as well. There is quite an interesting name for the plant in your language, if I remember correctly. Perhaps you know it by that name?”
“Really, ve? What is i—“
“You know, at the moment I can’t think of what it is! Give me a moment, lütfen?” Ottoman laughed to himself as if amused by his own ‘forgetfullness’. His gaze never left the form of the small boy, whose face was rapidly paling, mouth opening and shutting with no ridiculous noises coming out. A sudden crash seemed to break the dark-haired man from his attempts to ‘recall’ the plant’s name, but a closer look revealed eyes darkened in sick amusement as Venice collapsed against the desk, knocking the dish to the floor. A sudden spasm sent the boy tumbling from the desk as well and Ottoman shook his head, smrking. “Such an eager little one, you really do like them!” Slowly picking up a handful of the sweet treatas, the new Empire glided over to where the Republic was sprawled helplessly amidst the large pillows, occasionally hunching up and twisting about in an uncontrollable twitch and thrash. He reached down and picked the boy up by the collar of his rapidly staining white tunic, holding a berry to his unresponsive lips. “Here then, have some more!” Ottoman’s cheerful smile and words were followed by him pushing every black fruit, at least a dozen altogether, into that voiceless mouth and down his throat to his stomach. “Ah, I remember now! Isn’t that fantastic?”
All Venice could do was cough weakly, black juice trailing over his trembling bottom lip and down an expanse of paper-thin, unnaturally white skin to leave inkstains on his soiled tunic, mixing with the blood now blooming on the white canvas. His body was wracked with spasms and, had there been a floor to support him the youth would be curled in on himself, struggling agianst the electricity frying his very nerves. Ottoman tutted and scooped the boy up properly against his chest, wiping the liquid from the Italian’s chin and taking sick delight in the purple stain left behind.
“Oh, what’s wrong, ufaklýk?” Ottoman asked in a convincingly fake worried manner, face twisted up in such an overexaggerated expression of concern his true amusement was all the more obvious. “You were so expressive earlier, always sharing your opinion! Then again, you ate many more berries than I had expected~” Chuckling lightly, the brunette shifted his grip so he could kneel down and pick up another of the deadly fruit without losing his grip on the agonized boy. “This, young Venice, is the fruit of the Belladonna plant. Clever, isn’t it?” He continued, relishing in the horror dawning in dimming amber eyes. “Adults can survive eating up to twenty of these berries without the interference of a healer, but children...children will die after eating as little as a single berry.”
---
This part to be continued
