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God Save The Queen

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Blood Line

God Save the Queen

Today is my debut to the queen. The Queen of Cantarella to be exact. The queen of mystery and terror , the queen who has secretly beheaded three noblemen in only two weeks ago, the queen who is a part of a secret black magic circle mysteriously known by only unprecedented magicians. Lastly,the queen who hired me to be her spymaster during her reign. The queen whom asks me to do things of such an inhuman and unholy nature, I swear even my grotesque family ancestry does little to compare to her monstrous and repulsive tasks. As one may imagine, I’m slightly dazed and in a depth of anxiety at my current situation. I work hand in hand with the queen, and yet it is infrequent that I have any socialization other than requests or tasks that are only distributed to me by mouth of servant or written letters by the queen. In a very simplified aspect, this will be my first technical social meeting with the queen. Though most would be thrilled to meet the wealthy mysterious beauty, I am not, contrarily. I detest the queen, and those who adore her. For I believe she is but the most vile and disgusting human being I have ever dealt with, and considering my occupation, that is stating something. Being a spy, and being one of the best at that, concludes that I have a wide range of knowledge about the vileness of human society. And allow me to say that she is but the highest participant in this vile world. However, I am loyal to my own country, and abhor treason, though it’s not uncommon among us Cantarrellian spies, considering our monarch.
I sigh, and groggily arise from my living room sofa. For the past couple hours I have been intently working on a plot to overthrow one of the notoriously known nobles, of whom is not only the filth of society, but twists the peoples arrogance and oblivious minds against themselves in order for them to believe in his blasphemous plans of corruption and mutiny. Though these plans only benefit his own greedy being. A good dose of Asian poison to his veins administered by one of my best spies in sleep should be adequate enough.
I silently slip through the halls of my home; a gothic styled Hold which houses me, three butlers, and fifteen of my closest associates. It sits on a large, and deserted mountain, of which overlooks the eastern part of north Cantarella. The land is similar of what I hear of Britain, with rolling hillsides and lush deep forests. The winter is of my liking, with enough cold weather and snow to suit me perfectly, for I abhor areas of which no ice penetrates its domain. I believe there is ice and coldness everywhere one may look, in one way or another. I drift into my study, overlooking my gear, and establishing its condition, for the queen shall likely ask for me to be in uniform, though she personally detests it.
See, the queen believes women are tools which can only gain rank in society through deception, patience, and beauty. I would beg to disagree. She asked I wear the in- style dark corsets and ridiculous dresses, of which expose far too much to the eye for my taste, and would be completely ridiculous to even think about spying around in. I, against her choice, prefer the waistcoats and long cloaks, paired with leather riding trousers and tailcoats. My fellow associates, whom are all women, seem to prefer the same, except for a handful. She also appears to abhor my dark red hair, in which she acclaims is unnatural, and should be dyed an inked black. Though I do have a fondness for the dark color, (and almost all of my clothing are in that color), I will not do such a ridiculous thing. I silently chuckle, and replace my daggers into the appropriate case. I search around the room, making sure everything is where it should rightfully be placed. I affirm this, and silently leave the ash painted room, of which this color dominates most of the house besides the color white, or black. The more vibrant colors are too eccentric for my taste, and are unsettling to me. They leave the eye to believe in a fake inspiration of happiness, of which does not exist in this house. Only calm, silent, peace. Not of the chaotic, drunken nobles who know nothing of patience and peace of mind.
I slip into my own bedchamber, and silently prepare for my debut. She will expect me to dress in my most honorable uniform, which is her word for the most fancy, and eccentric. I curve my lips into a grin, and grab of the likes which she will detest. I swiftly pull out an ink black tail coat, along with It’s matching Black top hat, which I have fitted with a bouquet of crimson roses, my Family’s signature mark. I finish the outfit with my crimson embroidered waistcoat, armored riding trousers, with a pair of crimson embroidered and shined riding boots. I part my hair to far right, so my hair cascades in deep red tendrils down the right side of my face, so as I may partially hide my Ink black right eye. I shake the thought of what she’ll say, for she expects me to cover the eye up. However, I refuse, for this is when I show the queen who I am. And this is who I am. I quickly grab a rose for my tailcoat pocket, but its cut to pieces when I realize that I grabbed it with my left hand. I silently curse myself for being so clumsy.
You see, I have no left arm, for it was amputated when I was a small child. Many of the nobles besides my kind- hearted parents thought I was the laughing stock at the time, and laughed over the possibility of me being a fourteenth world wonder. The queen, whom heard of this, offered to repair my arm with her own black magic, for any surgical procedure was impossible, and magic was my only option.
Foolishly, I agreed. I remember waiting for her magician’s call, and suddenly, everything fading to an inking blackness. When I awoke, I was in my bed chamber, with this horrifying mechanical terror on my left shoulder. It starts at the base of my shoulder, with leather and titanium fastenings and belts, then trails down with a cylindrical and intricately embroidered hydraulic upper arm, down to a fore arm that at the base of my wrist, turns into a golden plated hand. Many would find this to be an extraordinary work of art, and would take it as a prized honor from the queen. I on the other hand, take it as a severe and cruel joke of insult. Many would ponder as to why. This is your answer: for at the base of the realistic mechanical hand, are grotesque titanium claws that extend for fifteen inches. It’s a hideous masterpiece, and a cruel joke that has insulted my whole family. My family never forgave the queen after that, and though I am bound by tradition and loyalty to my country, I detest our monarch with a vengeance that very few people can par. Even the peasants I see starving do not have a trace amount to my hate towards the queen.
I try again to grab a rose with my left “hand”, though again, it is cut to shreds. I laugh, for one would think a twenty year old woman would be able to nimbly pick up a rose. I try again, this time with my right. I slide it inside my tailcoat pocket, and I fleetingly remind myself how lucky I am to have at least one human arm. I proceed to glance at the foyer clock, and see that I must be on my way. The capital is not far from here, though it is about half a day’s ride through the countryside. I grab my most elaborate matching cloak, and head out of my home to the chilling cold which I adore. The sky is clear, and the snow covers the ground in a beautiful white blanket. I see one of my head butlers working on the front garden, and I kindly ask her to shovel some of the snow into sculptures. She kindly accepts the request, and carries on with her task. Soft snow like this is very useful for making wonderful ice sculptures which my acquainted butler loves to make, and which I find to be quite beautiful and amazing. It’s one of the few things in which my claws can artistically inscribe details into without breaking the work of art.
I hurry to the stable, and find Luna, my own steed. She has a coat of pure black, and eyes of a luminescent blue. She’s not extremely fast but suites my needs well enough. For a horse she oddly makes very little noise, even while galloping. I hoist myself up onto the saddle, and steady the reigns before relaxing into the saddle and urging her forward by nudging my boot heels into her sides. She starts at a light pace, and quickly changes to a fast- paced trot. I do not urge her to gallop, for it is only early afternoon, and the queen does not expect my arrival until dusk, therefore, I see no point in over working my horse. I simply hold the reigns, and enjoy the ride.
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